


A Gilded Cage

by Evergreene



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Intended non-con, M/M, Nagron, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evergreene/pseuds/Evergreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Nasir is taken slave again by the Romans, both he and Agron must fight to see him freed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a relative newbie into the wonderfulness that is the Spartacus fandon and this is my first serious fic in it. To set the scene in terms of relationships between the characters and the state of the rebellion, I'd put it sometime between 2.08 and 2.09. Thank you to everyone for reading and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings-please read  
> Please note that this story deals with the relationship between a slave and a dominus, and as such does deal with themes of slavery, intended non-con and thoughts of suicide. Also, this is a Spartacus fic (and Agron is in it), so there will be bad langauge and violence, but no more than in the show.

Agron dreamt of the arena. The roar of the crowds was loud in his ears, a rolling thunder that shook both air and ground, cut through with the clash of blades, fierce and brutal, and underscored by the dull, pervasive thud of footsteps on hot sand. He could hear the dry pants of his own breath, could smell the sickly blood and sweat and dust that sunk into his skin, impossible to wash clean.

All at once, Duro was beside him, alive once more with laughter and the fierce joy of battle, sharing triumph and rejoicing in their victory. Spartacus, too, stood by, tall and lean and powerful, primed with a player's skill as he called to the crowds, claiming them as his own, gaining their favour and making his fortune theirs. And Nasir, Nasir was there, sword in hand, his skin gleaming with sweat and oil as he fought with skill and cunning, winning his own share of the crowd's cheers as he smiled at them with a sweetness that belied the savagery of his movements.

Time slowed, and the arena flickered and blurred before reforming. The crowds howled and bayed and Agron just had time to notice the dark band that bound his lover's neck as Nasir looked at him, his expression gone sad and sorrowful, before he turned his blade upon himself. He tore it through flesh and gut and ragged muscle and sunk to the ground, his eyes already dull as his lifeblood ebbed out onto the burning hot sands, and Agron was alone in the arena once more.

Agron jolted awake with a sharp intake of breath and the image of Nasir's face, pale in death, sharp and jagged in his mind. Panting, he lay on his sleeping pallet, staring at the low stone ceiling above him and fighting back a lingering sense of fear and panic. Finally, as the dream slowly began to recede from mind and he no longer could smell the thick, acrid scent of blood and battle, he pushed himself onto his elbows and swiped an arm across his forehead, wiping away a mixture of cold sweat and dirt. Without allowing his gaze to fall upon the empty blanket beside him where Nasir usually lay, he instead rolled from the pallet and reached for his clothing in the early morning darkness. Finding himself unable to locate much of anything, a result of being absent Nasir's bird-like neatness for two nights now, he instead donned a rough cloth jerkin and padded barefoot from the small enclave he and Nasir had made their own by hanging a row of blankets between two walls, making for the main courtyard of the ruined temple that was the current home to the rebel force led by Spartacus.

Once there, Agron made for the temple wall that stood furthest from the towering mass of rock, stone and cliff that was Vesuvius. In the pre-dawn gloom, he could just make out the flickering torches of the men and women who stood sentry, stationed around the courtyard and on the walls at various points, guarding the temple's perimeter. Raising a hand in brief greeting, he swung himself up onto the wall just by the main gate, and climbed mainly by feel, hand over hand, until he sat perched on the highest ledge possible, looking out onto a world sunk in shadow, over what would in sunlight be the sloping foothills and plains that changed gradually into woodland some miles absent from the base of the great mountain. As he sat there, with the cool stone of the partly ruined wall pressing against the bared flesh of his legs, his dream came unbidden into his mind. Such dire thoughts were born of Nasir's prolonged absence, he knew, but that did not make them any easier to bear. The thought of Nasir facing death in the arena, of wearing again the collar that Spartacus had ripped from his neck, were fears that Agron chose never to give voice for the feeling that they could one day come true. Neither was beyond possibility. If the rebellion failed, if a battle went badly, if Nasir…

He stopped himself. Doubt was the realm of cowards, he reminded himself, of those who would not succeed because their own minds defeated them before enemy even raised weapon. Instead, he turned his gaze towards the burning line that had appeared in the blackness, the uppermost tip of the rising sun that had begun to dawn bloody and red on the horizon. As it rose, forming a huge crimson circle, it cast a hazy glow over the craggy slopes of Vesuvius behind him, causing the mountain to burn with a red fire. High above, iron-grey clouds appeared in the sky, visible for the first time since night had fallen, strewn and ragged as they sailed through the heavens, an ominous portent of foul weather to come.

As he watched the world slowly take life below him, Agron frowned. Something was moving out there. A dark, blurred shadow had appeared on the horizon, outlined in the blood-red light as it emerged from the faraway woods. Swiftly, he gained his feet and leant forward as far as he dared, holding onto the wall with one hand and straining his eyes to see more clearly. Finally, the shadow came into focus and he could see that it was made of people, moving quickly and dragging a long, heavily laden wagon as they made their way towards him. Agron's face dawned as understanding came. The small band of hunters that had left the rebel encampment two days back with hopes of finding sufficient food to feed an ever-increasing number of rebel fighters and followers had returned. And amongst them would be Nasir.

Agron's heart surged, sudden and fierce. Turning his back on the fast-approaching company, still only indistinct shadows in the half-light, he made his way down from his perch, dropping the last few feet unchecked until his bare feet hit cool dirt. 'They return!' he shouted to the guardsmen and women on the walls, who had raised their heads curiously at his sudden haste. 'I go to alert Spartacus. Open gates and bid our hunters welcome!' Feeling as though he was made of lightness itself, he hastened to Spartacus' quarters, bypassing the lone guard posted outside and throwing open the door of the large, sparsely furnished room without ceremony. 'They return!' he announced into the dimness beyond, unable to keep a grin from his face. 'Leave dreams behind and come greet our wayward warriors!' A growl was the only answer and Agron's smile fell from his face as he realised the immensity of the task before him. Famed gladiator or not, Spartacus was a fucking bear to wake in the morning.

He eyed the sleeping pallet that was positioned against the opposite wall, on which he could just make out a heavy bundle of blankets gathered about a solid lump. 'Rise from fucking slumber!' he demanded of it. 'Or be dragged from it by my own hands.' Beyond the room, he could hear the groan of the temple gates opening, and a faint cheer came to his ears as the party was welcomed home. Agron grimaced. Even now Nasir could be entering the temple and he was not there to greet him. He eyed the man in front of him, who seemed to have become lost once more to sleep in the short moments since he had last spoken. Determined not to delay laying eyes on Nasir any longer, Agron strode forward and dealt the form on the bed a sharp blow with the back of his hand. 'Spartacus!' he barked.

Spartacus lurched abruptly upright, groggy with sleep and his hair bristling every which way. He glared at Agron with bleary eyes. 'Find yourself absent room or face my sword,' he grumbled, his voice gravelly. He shook his head to clear it and looked at Agron again, taking in his half-dressed state. 'And don fucking sandals. What if Rome was to launch attack?'

Agron glanced down at his own, mostly bare, form and grinned. 'With Nasir soon returned to my arms, I see no cause for garment of any sort.'

Spartacus groaned and slumped back onto his pallet. 'Remove yourself,' he threatened. 'Or find yourself and Nasir on watch for many nights on opposing walls of temple!'

With an amused snort, Agron left, making for his own chamber and dressing quickly in the rosy light that pervaded the hanging blankets that gave him and Nasir privacy from prying eyes. It took him some time to locate his hob-nailed sandals and greaves, only finding them after uttering many growled curses hidden under a round shield that he had spent much time training Nasir to use to its best advantage. Lacing them tightly onto his feet and lower legs, he left once more for the courtyard, his heart a concoction of eagerness and impatience.

Upon arrival though, he was forced to shove his way through the jostling crowds that had already gathered there. It seemed that every last person in the stronghold had arrived to bid welcome to the hunting party. Rations had been scarce the past few weeks, the added numbers of Agron's countrymen combining with a cold snap of weather that had driven the prey the rebels counted on for survival away from their usual hunting grounds. As a result, Spartacus had ordered an overnight mission to venture further out from the temple than was normal in an attempt to secure sufficient supplies to keep every one of his people fed, newcomers and all. Nasir had been chosen for the task, largely for his growing skill with a spear, along with Crixus and Lugo. Yet anxiety had bloomed in the hearts and minds of those left behind when the party had failed to return when expected. Agron and Naevia, in particular, had been weighted with concern, their thoughts dwelling on the dangers they well knew lay outside the temple walls. And so it was with especially glad hearts that the rebels gathered to welcome the hunters home, milling about with excitement as they waited for the newfound gains to be dispersed amongst them.

Agron expected Nasir to be at the very centre of activities, as he had lately developed a habit of seeking involvement in near every aspect of camp life. Casting his eyes about the courtyard, however, he could see no sign of Nasir's dark head, nor of Lugo or Crixus. Indeed, the only sign of their return was that of the heavily loaded wagon, weighted down by the carcasses of several animals, as well as piles of wilting fruit and herbs. The newly arrived gladiator, Gannicus, was astride it, with Saxa at his side, helping to unload the meat, directing some of it to storage to be salted and dried, and distributing the rest amongst the gathered crowds. Of Crixus, who had headed the party, Agron could see no sign, not that he much desired to lay eyes on the Gaul. He wondered briefly if Nasir had made his way back to the quarters they shared, hoping to find Agron there, and that he had simply missed Nasir in the chaotic press of bodies that lined the confusing hallways of the temple. It had happened before, Nasir being slight enough to often become lost in a crowd despite Agron's own advantage of height, and Agron did not doubt that it could happen again.

Deciding that he little desired to waste time traipsing the temple halls in a misguided attempt to locate Nasir, Agron instead decided to go to the source. He began to push his way through the crowds towards the wagon, offering apologies where he could and swearing violently when someone stepped on his foot. He had made little progress, however, when a voice called his name. He turned to see Mira fighting her way through the gathered people, her dark hair bound in a single long braid that hung over one shoulder. As she called his name again, he noticed that her face was tight with worry. When she finally managed to gain his side, she reached out and laid hand upon his arm. 'Agron,' she said, her voice urgent, 'Spartacus desires words. He bids you join him in his quarters.'

Agron nodded in acknowledgement, taking advantage of the pause to rise up on his toes and skim the crowds yet again in search of Nasir. 'Send word that I shall attend shortly,' he said, wishing idly that Nasir was a little taller.

'He desires immediate presence.'

Agron looked down at her, his brow furrowed in annoyance. Spartacus knew well that he had been waiting upon Nasir's return. Mira's face was grave, however, and he knew that she spoke truth. With a growled curse, he cast his eyes over the crowds one last time, then turned on his heel and stalked off towards Spartacus' quarters with Mira sharp on his heels. As he strode through the crowds, brushing bodies out of his way absent-mindedly, he noticed that the racket around the cart had subsided. People were receiving their rations with muttered thanks instead of their usual cheers, and were speaking softly to one another, their heads lowered.

A lingering sense of disquiet developed in him as he made his way through the temple. People scurried out of his way or else whispered to their neighbours as he passed, casting fearful eyes in his direction. Some of them pointed at him openly, their gazes wide and sympathetic. His unease and his need to find Nasir deepening as one, Agron hurried onwards and entered Spartacus's quarters for the second time that day. Now that the sun had had time to reach its place in the sky, he could better see the large room. Carved from the same stone as the rest of the temple and sparsely furnished, Spartacus' quarters were filled only with the necessities-a sleeping pallet, a bench and a table with a chair behind it. Various bits of armour and clothing were strewn about and a gladius lay against the wall, crossed with a shield and a long spear that he and Spartacus had been teaching Nasir to use of late. The table, with its bench behind it, was covered in maps and other papers, and it was there that Spartacus waited.

Spartacus rose when he entered, and Agron could not help but notice that he looked much the same as Mira, his face sober and grim. His throat tightened but, as he halted before Spartacus, Agron made sure to meet his gaze with his usual brazenness, refusing to let his fears take grip. 'What news beckons from outside our temple?' he asked boldly. 'Has Rome yet collapsed from within, brought down by its own cruelty and greed?'

Spartacus did not reply. Instead, he gestured to Mira, who disappeared outside so that the two men stood alone in the room, facing each other. A chill ran down Agron's spine and settled somewhere in his gut even as Spartacus grasped his shoulder with one hand. His grip was heavy and warm. 'Agron,' he said. 'I bear grim news.'

Agron's mouth went dry. He swallowed, trying to regain some moisture in order to force out the words he knew he must ask. 'Is it Nasir?' he finally managed. 'I await his return, yet he remains hidden from eyes.'

Spartacus nodded and Agron's world went out from underneath him.

'Nasir has been taken captive,' Spartacus said, and Agron heard the words through a veil, murky and faint.

'Captive?' he repeated, the word catching in his throat.

'By Romans. Yesterday, as sun rose.'

Agron found himself shaking his head. 'This is fucking jest,' he said desperately, praying to the gods that it was so. He had lost his brother, he would not lose Nasir. He would not.

'It does me ill to say it, but no.' Spartacus' grip on him tightened yet Agron barely felt it, his mind and body going numb as the words rolled sickeningly through him. 'Heart aches to reveal truth.'

The sympathetic words fell on deaf ears. Agron licked his lips, again seeking moisture. He could not seem to draw sufficient air. 'Where is he? Does he yet draw breath?'

A new voice, low and guttural, entered the conversation. 'He was yet amongst the living last I set eyes on him.'

Agron spun round to find Crixus framed in the doorway, the reddish cast of the morning light spilling around his form, silhouetting him in bloody shadow. Mira was by his side, along with Lugo, mud-covered and with his right leg bound from calf to thigh with bloodied bandages. 'Crixus,' Agron hissed, his fear for Nasir turning swiftly to a hard, savage anger that pulsed through his body, igniting his very blood. 'I should have fucking known.'

Crixus entered the room, bringing with him all his usual arrogance that remained undimmed by the red-streaked mud and filth that covered him from head to foot. Ripping himself from Spartacus's grasp, Agron surged furiously towards the Gaul, the one who had left with Nasir but not returned with him. 'Where is he?' he raged, thrusting the flat of his arm against Crixus's chest and driving him back so that he hit the wall. He shoved him again and the Gaul's head thudded back against the stone. 'Speak truth or have it seized from bloodied mouth!'

'Agron!' Spartacus barked. He started forwards, but Crixus shook his head. 'The man deserves truth,' he said, meeting Agron's gaze until Agron slackened his hold and stepped back, though every muscle in his body remained tight with blind fury.

'The hunt went ill,' said Crixus bluntly. 'Our spears felled many creatures, but Lugo suffered wound, leg gored through by boar's tusk.' Agron's gaze flicked quickly to Lugo, who he now noticed was being supported by Mira, her arms wrapped about one of his in an attempt to steady him. Slowly, Agron turned back to Crixus, who was still speaking, his voice harsh.

'We were forced to take rest,' he continued. 'It was not until sunrise this past day when camp was broken. Nasir went to scout ahead, searching for clear path homewards.' He grimaced. 'He instead sighted company of Roman shits, both mounted and on foot, and armed to fucking teeth. Knowing himself absent time to give proper warning, Nasir confronted them, creating chaos enough to warn us and drawing their attention before they could stumble upon our camp. Such action won us sufficient time to fade from sight and so make it home with supplies.'

'Yet Nasir still lives?' Spartacus asked, his arms folded across his chest as he listened again to Crixus's tale.

Crixus nodded. 'We both set eyes on him, bound and astride one man's horse.'

Agron's blood burned. He advanced on Crixus, his teeth gritted. 'And seeing this, your mind turned from pursuit? From battle?' He clenched his fists so hard that his nails bit into his skin, etching red half-moons upon his palms. 'You are fucking warriors! Both of you! Why did you not stand and fight for Nasir, as he would have for you?'

'Weapons were in hand, you ignorant shit!' Crixus retorted. 'But the fucking fool, beaten and bound as he was, laid eyes upon us and signalled us to fall from sight! His intent was clear and mind reasoned. He would not have us risk death. Lugo and I stood two against ten times that number, and them with knife already at Nasir's throat!'

At Crixus's last words, Agron let loose with a foul curse then spun, turning to storm out of the room with fierce strides.

'Agron?' he heard Spartacus call. 'Where do you go?'

'Where do you fucking think?' Agron retorted, spinning back to face him. 'I go to Nasir's aid, even if these fucking cowards would not!' He headed for the door, intending to seize a horse from their limited mounts, but Spartacus moved to stand in his way, a hand raised in protest. In one quick movement, Agron ducked underneath the restraining arm and shoved the other man, sending Spartacus crashing to the floor and continuing past him. The only thought in his head was to get to Nasir, to have safe him in his arms and to not let go, not to hunt, not to sleep, not to eat, piss or fight. He would have Nasir back. It would not be like Duro, not again. He would have Nasir back, or he would end the world trying.

Lost in that thought, one that he knew, somewhere, edged towards madness, he did not halt in his tracks until a heavy hand hit him hard in the chest, jarring him to an abrupt stop. He raised his head. Crixus stood before him, his eyes hooded and dark, blocking his path through a narrow corridor. Naevia had appeared from somewhere and stood by his side, a silent shadow. Before either of them could speak, Agron bared his teeth and pointed his finger at Crixus. 'Do not,' he growled. 'Do not fucking speak of regret.'

Crixus raised his hands, for once placating. 'My intent was not to abandon your boy. As well you know, I stand versed in the pain of losing one held close to heart.' He glanced sideways at Naevia, small and slight by his side, before returning gaze to Agron. 'I swear by fucking Jupiter, I shall see Nasir returned to you.'

A laugh burst out of Agron that he could not constrain. 'You treacherous fuck,' he spat, watching with cruel satisfaction as Crixus' face tightened. 'You shit sweet words and expect me to believe them sincere when not two days have passed since you left Nasir in fucking Roman hands!'

'Agron-' Naevia started, yet Agron cut her off, intent on Crixus. 'Was it for revenge?'

Crixus's brow furrowed. 'I know not what you-'

'For when I sought to leave Naevia in the mines, in vain attempt to protect us all? Is this why you forsook Nasir? To drive dagger into my beating heart, as I did yours?'

Naevia laid a hand on Crixus's arm as though she expected him to launch attack, but Crixus only shook his head. 'Blame for the judgement you so freely cast shall be laid at grief's dark altar,' he said. 'As such, I shall not give you the beating your fucking words deserve.'

Agron snorted. 'Cowardice strikes once more,' he taunted, his blood surging within him. He wanted to fight, to feel flesh part against his knuckles, to make someone bleed for what had happened to Nasir. And Crixus provided just such a target, arrogant, strong and at fault.

'The choice was Nasir's!' Crixus retorted. 'By his act he ensured the safe return of myself and Lugo, and with food enough to feed our people! Had he not made sacrifice, all would have been dead within weeks or else forced to leave the safety this temple provides us!'

'Better you had passed from this world than stood coward!'

Naevia stepped forward, her eyes narrowed into slits. 'You dishonour Nasir,' she hissed. 'His deed was of much courage, yet all you think of is resulting fate from which he may yet be rescued.'

Agron turned on her, bringing himself to his full height as he glared downwards, towering a full head and shoulders over her. 'Had I been present, Nasir would need no rescue. He would never have fallen to such fate! I would have gone to aid and-'

'With what purpose?' Crixus demanded. 'To have both of you imprisoned by Romans instead of one? To make Nasir stand captive, witness to your death in the face of greater numbers?' Advancing, Crixus shoved Agron in the chest, pushing him back, away from Naevia. 'The choice was Nasir's to give life in exchange for ours, yet you speak as if he was child needing protection! He is not Duro!'

As Crixus's words rang in his ears, a rage fell upon Agron so fierce that he fought to breathe. 'Silence tongue or see it torn from mouth,' he managed to get out. 'You know nothing of what you speak!'

Yet Crixus was not done. He advanced so that Agron could feel his hot breath a bare inch from his face. 'Nasir is no more the body slave found in that villa, obedient to every pleasure of his fucking dominus,' he snarled. 'He is a warrior, equal of many here! He holds loyal to Spartacus and has proven himself willing to lay down life for our cause. He stands a stubborn, obstinate little shit, fool enough to give heart to a fucking idiot who remains stranded in the past, lost to memories of another once held as dear!' Crixus gave a derisive snort. 'You would keep Nasir safe in hand, in gilded cage where no harm could reach, without thought of how it would destroy all he has come to be!'

Agron launched himself at Crixus, driving his clenched fists into every bit of flesh he could reach. Within seconds, however, he was being hauled back and away by Donar and Gannicus, who had both appeared seemingly from the air itself. Seconds later, Spartacus was standing before him, his voice raised in equal measure of anger, sympathy and sternness even as Agron struggled, trying to get at Crixus, who was being assisted to his feet by Naevia as he swiped a muscled arm over his bloodied mouth.

'I know your fear, Agron,' said Spartacus, his voice ringing hard and true. 'Many here have experienced the like, Crixus most of all when he learnt of Naevia's fate in the mines. Yet you must seize control and hold in readiness. Even as we break words we readying force to aid Nasir. We will not leave one of our own in Roman hands.'

Wrenching himself free of restraining arms, Agron stood panting, gradually becoming aware of the watching crowd that had gathered in the narrow corridor, a hoard of people jostling for best position that had gone unnoticed until then. Spitting a mouthful of dark blood to the ground, he glared at Spartacus. 'When do we leave?' he demanded. 'The Roman fucks are over a day ahead of us.'

'Then we shall move fast. We will find him, brother, I swear it.'

Crixus spoke again. 'Spartacus,' he said. 'There is more I must tell you, of Nasir and his captors. One of them named him as Tiberius, the…'

'The name he held as Roman slave,' Spartacus finished. He looked thoughtful. 'Nasir was known to these men.' His gaze hardened and he looked back at Agron, whose heart had begun beating faster at Crixus's words. Spartacus dipped his head in a hard nod, determination etched in every line of his body. 'Take up arms and make ready,' he said. 'We leave now.'

TBC


	2. Chapter Two

The red dawn found Nasir kneeling on the flagstone floor of a sprawling Roman villa, his legs folded beneath him and his hands laced precisely in his lap. His breaths were soft and schooled and his face was a blank mask, void of emotion or thought. At his wrists and ankles hung the awkward heaviness of weighted chains, a labyrinthine combination of hard leather and bitter metal that wrapped around his limbs so they were separated by only a short length, with cuffs that scoured the flesh beneath them red, raw and bare. He kept his head bowed, his gaze lowered and his thoughts focused.

He had never before been so bound in all his life. During his years of servitude, he had enjoyed the best of what a wealthy dominus could offer a favoured slave- fine cloths in which to dress, perfumed oils in which to bathe with fragrant scents designed to lure and beckon, and carefully chosen jewellery that glinted, alluring and bright, against primed skin that gleamed under soft lamplight. He had borne a collar, but it had been at most a symbol, a reminder of the gilded prison in which he had lived, rather than being a prison in and of itself. His most recent captors, however, seemed most anxious to keep him tame. And so he had been imprisoned in bonds that weighed down his every limb and restricted movement, making him obedient as a dog on a lead, forced to go where he was taken.

Though he wondered briefly at his soundness of mind, he found himself almost glad of the unwieldy shackles. Each of the forged links told him he was not back in his old life, having never left the service of his dominus, told him the past seasons had not simply been a sweet dream sent by the gods, designed to snare his mind with false thoughts of freedom. Each link told him he had fought alongside proud men and women in a rebellion against a great but unworthy power, had made his own fate, had lived, loved and been free. He had known Agron and Spartacus and all others of like mind, united in purpose against the might of Rome.

The shackles served another purpose also. Since finding himself in Roman hands, the fear he might again be made body slave had played at the corners of his mind, making his breath catch and his heart seize every time he dwelled upon the thought. Yet the very chains that marred his flesh had proved balm. From years spent with his former dominus, he knew that few of the wealthier Romans used such bonds on those who served them in their beds, not liking to see the more violent signs of slavery upon the bodies with which they would play. Even fewer would deign to take their pleasure from one who had spent so great a time in the rebel camps as had he. He let the thought wash over him, a comfort and a lifeline that enabled him to maintain his façade of calm, acting as a rock in a swollen river where he was a drowning man. It reassured him. Although he might be made to serve Rome once more, he at least went armed with the near certainty that he was not fated to be made body slave once more.

Around him, he could hear the murmur of voices and the soft tread of footsteps, a slave's perhaps, sketching wide berth around him where he knelt, on display for whoever had desire to look. He could feel eyes upon him, watching, and the thought of the unwanted gaze made his skin shiver and his face begin to burn with humiliation and anger and, to his disgust, the sick, shameful sting of fear. He battled hard against the last but it was persistent, reaching its twisting fingers into him and causing his mind and body both to seize in dread in spite of the thoughts he had used only moments ago to strengthen himself. As he dwelled upon the watching eyes, reluctant to acknowledge them with even a look, his breaths began to hasten and his thoughts turned to panic. He did not want to be there, would have given anything not to be. He wanted to be back amongst the rebels, with Agron standing tall by his side with arm slung over his shoulders, with Spartacus and Naevia and Mira, Donar, Saxa and Crixus, with people who saw him for who he was, rather than a belonging to be used or consumed.

He forced himself to take a slow breath, then another. He needed to retain control, else he would lose himself to terror's choking grip. He had chosen this, he reminded himself, and had done so of his own volition. On the hunt, he had made decision to reveal himself to the Romans instantly, stepping out from behind cover of dense bush and undergrowth even as thought of what it could mean came upon him: slavery, torture, death. Yet the knowledge he would save his companions from discovery had surged through him, allowing him to stand with pride, his shoulders straight as he had been seized upon by unfriendly hands, knowing that he alone had selected the cause to which he had flown, not as a sword, as Spartacus had once urged, but as shield.

As he knelt on the stone floor of the villa, feeling its hard chill seep into his bones, he remembered again the snorts of impatient horses that had been so loud in his ears as heavy hands had pushed him forwards, the harsh shouts of the Romans as he was forced to his knees in the dirt, the feel of his weapons being torn from his grasp and the cruel bite of a knife against the soft flesh of his throat. Mostly, however, he remembered the sharp wrench of fear that had spiked deep in his gut as his jaw had been seized and he had been made to look upwards into a face he recognised.

The younger brother of his former dominus, a man who went by the name of Secundus Livius, had stared down at him from the back of his horse with a look that was at first distracted and uncaring, seeing only another creature far below notice. Yet comprehension had passed slowly across his fleshy, sweating face and his blue eyes, pale and strange against his dark, carefully styled hair, had gone bright with glee. He had spoken to his men and Nasir had been at once bound and forced onto a horse with a Roman soldier pressed too close behind him, the shit's sinewy arms wrapped tight about his waist as he hissed foulness into Nasir's ear.

With his skin prickling and despair stabbing at his gut, threatening to overcome reason, it had taken all of Nasir's strength to shake his head upon sighting Crixus and Lugo hidden in the undergrowth, their bodies camouflaged by mud and blood and leaves, poised for action with weapons bared and ready. Yet he had known, and knew still, that he could not have allowed either man to share his fate or worse, not when the odds had been piled so surely against them. And so he had made his choice, given a brief shake of his head and sent them away, grateful beyond all count that they had understood and assented.

Hope was not yet lost, he told himself sternly, forcing himself to take another calming breath. Chance of escape was strong. He repeated the thought, determined to keep his spirits high and eyes ever watchful. Although the large, luxurious villa to which he had been brought was well-guarded, no doubt because of threat presented by Spartacus and his rebels, he could still regain freedom.

Opportunity to escape of his own accord lay in his ability to play the acquiescing slave until he was well-enough trusted to secure some small measure of privilege, liberty from his bonds perhaps, or even from the villa itself. Were he to accompany Secundus Livius on a trip of business to a nearby town or city, he was certain he could slip away if given proper chance, to become lost in crowds or down twisting streets. He did not believe Secundus would take much care in restricting his movements beyond those of the other slaves, not once the immediate excitement of Nasir's recapture had diminished, as he had seemed to quickly believe Nasir's swiftly woven tale of capture by the rebels, of being forced to fight for a cause he believed false until managing to secure escape. Upon the telling of it, Secundus had clapped his hands in mirth, and a quick glance upwards had assured Nasir that he was enthralled by the story.

He remembered the man from his days serving in his brother's villa. Secundus had been a frequent visitor there, always fawning and attempting to curry favour with his elder sibling to improve his standing in Rome. He had never paid Nasir much notice, though Nasir had more than once felt his eyes upon him as he went about his duties. Now, however, Secundus seemed fascinated by him and his tale of escape, complaining as he had been summoned to attend to the pressing matter of wealthy guests who had recently arrived from a nearby town.

Nasir knew he could play the slave, could be one in action, if not intent. He knew how, had occupied such position before, holding a false power and freedom in which he himself had believed. He could seek the trust of his dominus, become Roman more than Syrian once more, all the while preparing himself to seize on the first chance of escape that beckoned.

The other course to true freedom, he knew, was rescue. Agron would come for him, once made aware of Nasir's plight. Nasir knew that as he knew his own name. Agron would come and he would kill all who had caused Nasir hurt. Spartacus would aid him, as one who believed that no man, woman or child, whatever their worth or station, should ever be left behind. So he could wait certain of the rescue that would come once Spartacus had opportunity to gather suitable force to seize the villa. Secure in the comfort that he would unlikely be taken as body slave once more, he could have patience and bide his time until the rebels stormed the villa's gates, with Agron, furious, determined and driven by every bit of arrogance he had, at their head. And Nasir, once freed of his chains, would join them, robbing of life every Roman who had dared name him slave.

Nasir was brought sharply back to the present by the slow, ponderous pad of footsteps on the flagstone floor. They stopped right before him and, with a quick dart of his eyes, he made out the thickset ankles and sandaled feet of Secundus Livius, who wore a long white robe that was given reddish hue by the crimson light of the sun as it climbed to its place in the sky. There was a brief pause, then Secundus spoke, his voice taught with excitement.

'Prepare him,' he announced to the room at large. 'He shall serve as body slave this night.'

The rock to which Nasir had been clinging shifted and vanished. The world went out from beneath him and the raging, swollen river tumbled him away.

* * *

They moved fast, passing briefly over the stony plains that lay beyond the temple before vanishing between the trunks of trees into a murky wood where full daylight never struck, where every leaf and bark and smallest root was cast in pallid shadow. Hours passed in which they followed barely-marked trails that were soft underfoot, rich with the littered remains of the detritus of plants and soils. They ducked under low-hanging boughs and leapt tiny, winding streams that sparkled where the forest canopy parted enough to allow the sun to blind itself upon the surface of the water. All the while, they pushed for speed, cutting their way through thick undergrowth that was dense and murky, and rejecting the obvious path in favour of that most direct.

They numbered only six-Agron, Spartacus, Crixus, Naevia, Saxa and Donar-with Spartacus having decided that swiftness was of greater import than strength. They also travelled light, each carrying only his or her own weapons, as well as sufficient supplies to negate any need to hunt. Crixus ranged out front, loosely tracing the path that he, Nasir and Lugo had taken two days past, though he seized upon any shortcut that proffered itself. Saxa followed, her loose hair burning gold as she ran swift and quick, only just visible as a flashing shadow through the thick wealth of trees. Then came Agron, who had managed to leash his rage and fear into a fierce energy that buoyed him without need for sleep or rest. His face was grim, his mouth set and determined, and his mind was focused upon the pursuit. He spoke only to harry the others to greater speed, increasing his own pace until Donar, sharp on his heels, talked him back down, cautioning him to save energy for the end of their chase, when it might be sorely needed to secure Nasir's release.

Naevia ran in their wake, slight, small and nimble. She was new to such missions, and Agron had fought against her accompanying them, wanting only the rebellion's best and most able warriors to accompany himself and Spartacus. Naevia had argued with him, her eyes flashing in a new anger he had not seen from her before as she demanded opportunity to return the favour that Nasir had done her on the mission from the mines. Mira had argued on her side until finally Spartacus had interjected, asserting Naevia's right to join them. With Crixus boasting of his woman's ability to move silent and quick as a shadow vanishing in sunlight, Agron had had no choice but to acquiesce to her presence. He still dealt her suspicious glance every so often as she ran at his back, decked in lashings of armour that would not hamper her slim body, but so far, she had proven Crixus's words true. Finally, at the rear of the party, ran Spartacus, strong and sure, a reassuring presence for all as he called encouragement and guarded their backs from potential and hidden threats.

Their pace did not slacken until they came upon the site where Nasir had been taken, a broad, open trail hidden deep in the ever-deceptive woods. Slowing to a halt beneath the clouding sky, Agron swore, violent and angry, as he laid eyes upon the tracks of the Romans, finally accepting that Crixus had not given over to exaggeration when he numbered them at two times ten. As he waited for the rest of his companions to catch their breath, he paced back and forth, impatient to be off.

Saxa knelt down on the bare ground to study the chaotic tracks. They were thick and obvious, with the hooves of the horses sunk deep and dark in the black dirt of the forest trail.

'Hope falters if they made journey by horse,' Donar complained, noting her examination as he rested against a broken tree trunk that looked to have been struck by lightning at some point in its past. He was bent in half as he attempted to regain breath. 'Their fucking speed will be far greater than our own.'

Crixus shook his head, his own breath coming in heavy pants. 'Only some amongst their number were mounted. The rest marched on foot.'

'Surely we gain upon them,' Naevia said, straightening from her own crouch and reaching for the water flask she wore at her waist. She drank deeply from it before passing it towards Crixus, who took a large draught before tipping what small content remained over his head. 'If we travel when darkness has fallen, we shall come upon them soon enough.'

'And if they have reached destination?' Donar demanded, voicing the question to which most all desired answer. 'Do we storm fucking town if trail dictates Nasir is concealed within its walls?'

'If that is what it takes,' Spartacus said. He stood a little apart from the others, his head raised towards the sky.

Donar grinned. 'And any Romans that stand opposed?'

Saxa snorted, loud and fierce, and muttered something in her own language.

Donar raised an eyebrow at her then looked to Agron, who had paused in his pacing long enough to swig from his own flask. 'What does she say?'

Agron tied the half-empty flask back at his belt. 'She says we shall cut them down like the shits they are and take back what is ours.'

Crixus laughed, the sound harsh and dry in the emptiness of the woods. 'The women of your land speak as warriors.'

'Mach es dir selber,' Saxa retorted, turning on him with a flashing, daggered gaze. 'I am fucking warrior.' She looked at Agron and jerked her head towards Crixus. 'Er ist ein Schwachsinniger,' she commented.

Agron ignored her, having no time for base arguments. He approached Spartacus, who was still watching the sky. 'We hold here too long,' he muttered irritably. 'Every moment is another lost.'

Spartacus nodded and gestured upwards so that the entire company looked towards the gradually darkening heavens. They were met with the ominous sight of thickset grey clouds gathering above them, threatening heavy rain that would wash away the tracks they so sorely relied upon. 'You are right,' he said. 'We must quicken pace or risk losing trail.'

With murmurs of assent, the company readied themselves and set off once more at a pacing run that ate up the ground beneath them as they followed the cacophony of prints that ran through the wood. Despite the threatening weather, most ran with new energy now they had a clear path before them and were certain they quickly approached their purpose.

Agron, however, felt his grip on hope growing tenuous at the thought of losing the trail they followed. His dream came unbidden into his mind once again and, burdened with dark thoughts, his strides faltered, losing their enduring rhythm. Gradually, he gradually dropped to the back of the pack, yet within moments Spartacus had slowed to run beside him, letting the rest of the company draw ahead.

'Have heart,' Spartacus murmured, as their feet pounded together against the black earth. 'Nasir is not yet lost to us.'

Agron flicked a quick glance at him before refocusing on the trail. 'You know well that Donar's words may come to pass, if they yet have not. What if path followed ends at gates of busy town? How are we to find Nasir then?'

Spartacus shrugged dismissively. 'You run with men and women who have escaped from Roman ludus, broken another from Capuan mines and burnt arena to ash. I cannot think seizing upon town would provide great challenge.'

Agron could not help the savage grin that came upon his face at Spartacus' brash confidence, even though he suspected it was staged with the lone purpose of quieting his own worries. Pushing his dream to the back of his mind, he steeled himself and shouted harshly to his companions, urging them on as he quickened his own pace. They responded in kind, running one behind the other as they covered each other's flanks, searching all the while for any trace of Nasir.

* * *

Though resolute to betray nothing of his burgeoning fear to the Roman soldiers surrounding him, Nasir could not help but falter as he was led towards the doorway of a room that, based on the soft rugs, long drapes and ceramic pots he could see within, was all too clearly the realm of a body slave. He paused, unwilling to step foot inside, but a sharp prod in the hollow of his back, courtesy of one of his guards, forced him forwards.

Moments later, his legs were kicked out from underneath him and he was made to kneel on thickly woven cloth while his chains were fixed tightly to a solid metal ring in the wall that left him little room to manoeuvre. His heart quailed. Though it had been only a mere season since he had last served a dominus, he found that his mind and body both now shied from the mere thought of another taking their pleasure from him without consent. With mind unveiled by the combination of Spartacus' reasoned words and Agron's intimate touch, he could not help the deepening feeling that he would rather risk death before bearing again such servitude.

Finally, the guards left. Nasir forced himself to look about, doing his best to ignore the way his stomach clenched at the familiar surrounds. Like most rooms of this particular nature, this one was brightly lit against the darkening sky by a host of burning torches held in scones fixed high on the walls. Other lamps were dotted about too, leaving nowhere for him to hide amongst sympathetic shadows to try to forget his fate. The cloying taste of perfumes and oils saturated the air and he breathed in the heavy fragrance unwillingly, feeling vaguely sick as his mind took him back to other nights spent with his former dominus, sometimes with Chadara beside him, as he had breathed in the same scent.

He had been chained next to a slender wooden table that sat on four spindly legs, on which was displayed an arrangement of ceramic pots and several glass jars, more precious in their luminous beauty. As well as the various containers, there were strips of white fabric, a bronze mirror, some metal strigils, decorated combs of white bone and bronze and bangles of every shape and size, plus every other sort of decoration for the body that could be imagined. He recognised it all. He knew immediately which of the perfumes were favoured by men and which appealed to women, he knew which of the oils would give added sheen to his skin or lend rich scent to his hair. It was knowledge he had thought never to use again and had done his best to forget.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to distance himself from his surrounds even as his mind raced, seeking increasingly desperate ways to avoid what he was to suffer once the dim dusk outside had fallen truly to darkness. Yet he was not left alone long enough for plans to formulate. Shortly after the guards had disappeared outside the door, it swung wide again with a soft creak and he opened his eyes to see a thin wisp of a girl enter, dark-haired and young, with a body that had yet to gain a woman's full curves. Her neck was bound by a collar. He had seen her about the villa several times that day as other slaves had washed his body and cleaned every inch of him before finally dressing him in a rich red cloth that wrapped about his waist, secured there with an ornate leather belt. It seemed that Secundus was sparing no expense while there were guests in his home.

The girl approached him slowly and laid a tremulous hand upon his shoulder. He did his best to ignore her, as he had done all day with the unfamiliar touches of the villa's slaves. She began her task without word, smoothing his hair with fine oils that to him reeked of the thick stench of slavery and sent his head into a dizzying spin. The girl worked with unusual speed, lining his eyes with kohl so they stood out and massaging lotions into muscles he had built by learning to hold a blade as though it was a feather. Yet he could tell she was nervous from the faintness of her breaths and the hesitancy of her touch. She was a young thing, clearly unused to such duties as preparing a body slave for service. In truth, it was usually the slave himself who completed the task. Yet his situation was different, he thought bitterly, listening to his chains clank together as he shifted position. The girl pulled back at once, her eyes wide and startled, only resuming her preparations when he had stilled once more. He noticed, however, how her hands shook as she reached for another ceramic pot, this one small and filled with faint colour to brush against his cheeks.

He thought briefly of resisting, of testing the reach of his chains by driving the girl up against the wall with a hand around her throat. He knew that he could kill her. Agron had shown him how, how to place his fingers just so around a person's neck and push until fragile bones shattered beneath grip. It would be a simple task with one so young. Yet he dismissed the thought almost before it had fully formed, berating himself. Desperation was no excuse for murder or cruelty. It was not in him to do such a thing, not to one who had done nothing to deserve such an end. Besides, the guards were still outside, his chains were still fixed to the wall and he would achieve nothing but the senseless death of a slave he would in any other circumstance seek to protect.

He startled when the girl spoke, her voice hesitant and hushed so low he could barely hear it. 'From where do you come?'

She was trying to distract him from his fate. His heart softened and he replied, doing his best to keep his own voice low and steady despite his simmering fear. 'I am Syrian,' he said, 'though I do not much remember the land.'

She shook her head and spoke again, throwing a zephyr-quick glance towards the doorway before she leant close and pressed her mouth to his ear. 'You mistake meaning. The guards whisper that you hail from among Spartacus' rebels. Do they speak truth?'

Nasir wondered briefly if she had been sent to secure information from him about the rebel forces, where they hid, how many they numbered, but quickly dismissed the notion. The girl's bright eyes were too eager, her breath too bated as she waited for his response. He nodded.

'Have eyes fallen upon him? Upon Spartacus?'

'They have.'

'Have you shared words?'

'Often.'

'And what of him?'

Nasir paused. How was he to describe all that Spartacus was to him-father, brother, leader, visionary, rebel, friend. 'He stands a good man,' he said finally.

He felt the girl's warm breath close against the nape of his neck as she began to draw back his hair, braiding half of it into a delicate knot at the crown of his head and fixing it in place with a solid pin made from bronze, which had a pointed metal spoke that slid through to secure the style. 'Stories are told amongst the slaves here,' she whispered, her mouth once more next to his ear. 'Tales of his victories in battle, how he fought in the arena before making stand against Rome.' She ran her fingers lightly over his finished hair, applying a fine oil to make it gleam.

Nasir remained quiet. Spartacus had always fought, he thought to himself, always resisted the hand fate had dealt him. He had battled against enslavement and urged all others he encountered to do the same, to seek freedom rather than bow to the Romans who would treat them as less than what they were. He remembered his first glimpse of the man, when Spartacus had torn collar from about his neck and spoken to him and his fellows of breaking the bonds of slavery. Even at the memory, his cheeks flushed dark. He had stood a fool that night, full of stubborn pride, unwilling to accept the gift that Spartacus had offered.

The girl's voice broke in on his thoughts. 'You served the rebels then? In their camp?'

Nasir felt his mouth quirk. He shook his head. 'I did not serve them, but stood amongst them,' he corrected her, feeling a faint beat of pride within his chest. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had turned that pride against Spartacus, making attempt on his life as he lay with Mira. He was fortunate Spartacus had seen fit to offer him second chance rather than robbing him of life there and then.

Perhaps it was time he turned that same pride to better cause.

As the thought took root, he lifted his head, his body suddenly tense. He would not go to his fate that night as a fearful slave, cowed and obedient and led by Roman leash. He would go as a rebel and a free man and make Spartacus, and Agron, and all others like them proud. He stood no longer the same boy who had attacked Spartacus, who had answered to his dominus' call and welcomed his touch as a means to garner higher position in the household. No, now that his mind was stripped of its rosy veil that had cloaked a slave's life in fine trappings, now that he knew the touch of a lover instead of a dominus, he would no longer have another's unwanted hands upon his flesh. He had changed, and been changed, by those he had met and all he seen and lived and done. So he would stay true to who he had become and to the rebels' cause. He would resist.

He felt his choice settle within him and knew it sat right. There would be consequences, though. If Secundus Livius was anything like his brother, punishment would follow any sign of disobedience from a slave. His former dominus had favoured beatings as a means of keeping his household in line, but it was not the only means employed by Romans to cow the slaves who served the republic. Starvation, imprisonment, conscription to the mines, being sold on elsewhere...all were possibilities. He had heard tales of troublesome slaves from other houses being traded to lesser families until they served the very lowest echelons of society or else found themselves turned out on the streets, begging to find enough food to sustain the day. Thinking quickly, he weighed up the risks. Banishment would lessen the chances of Agron and Spartacus locating him quickly, but it also offered him chance of escape away from such a well-guarded villa. Perhaps he could then secure his own way home and surprise Agron upon his return, making him proud that Nasir had sought and won his own freedom.

Conscious of the guards who had left through the door, he twisted until his lips found the girl's ear and there was not a breath of distance between them. 'Spartacus will come,' he said, keeping his voice hushed and careful. 'Here, to deliver me from bonds of slavery once more. I know not when, only that he will. You must pass word to him on my behalf if opportunity fails me.'

The girl's face paled. 'Courage would falter. Besides, why would you hesitate to speak with one so familiar to you?'

Nasir did not answer. 'What name do you go by?' he asked instead.

'Aemelia.'

'Aemelia. If you meet Spartacus and I do not stand by your side, I would have you tell him I fought this night.'

The girl's fine brow creased. 'What do you plan?' she said finally, suspicion making her voice harsh.

Nasir remained silent but Aemelia leaned over him, resting one hand on his shoulder, her fingers digging into his flesh with a strength he had not suspected she owned. Her words were urgent and laced with dire warning. 'Please, if resistance beckons, I beg you dismiss it from mind. In this villa, it leads to death.'

Nasir's heart stuttered within his chest. Thought had not occurred to him that departure from this life would be the immediate and only punishment for resistance shown. He hesitated, considering, then squared his shoulders, feeling his blood begin to race with stubborn rebellion. It made little difference. Neither Agron nor Spartacus would follow the tug of a Roman leash and nor would he.

Aemelia was watching him, her gaze sober. 'I bore witness once with my own eyes,' she said softly. 'My own sister-' She cut off, then began again, her voice harder than it had been as what Nasir sensed was a long-held bitterness for one so young came back to her. 'Why number yourself amongst the fools who would risk such penalty?'

Nasir reached up and seized her hand, tugging at her so they were face to face. He wanted her to understand his decision, so she could pass it on to those who knew him. 'All I am,' he said, putting all the intensity he could muster into his words, 'all I have come to be since I seized to follow Spartacus and first called him friend... it means I cannot submit to what this night holds.' He paused, unsure whether to reveal his next thoughts to a stranger. Yet need won out. He had to ensure this message reached the one who most deserved to hear it. He tugged Aemelia closer still, silently cursing the jangle of his chains, and dropped his voice so that it was little more than harried whisper. 'Further reason for resistance stands. There is another, one to whom my heart belongs. He will come for me. You must pass word that I would suffer no touch but his.'

Aemelia ripped her hand free from his grasp. 'You think yourself free to pursue such foolish notions as love?' she hissed. 'You stand a slave! A lesson my sister learnt to her detriment, and to that of the man who claimed her heart.'

Though sudden sympathy for her suffering and her family's rose within him like a wave, Nasir shook his head, full of a bold defiance that had lain mostly forgotten since Secundus had made his announcement, buried beneath fear and memories he know knew had paralysed his thoughts. 'I stand as free as any other. If they lay hand upon me tonight in attempt to take their pleasure, I will fight until breath is absent my body.'

'No breath will remain if you resist. You will be killed.'

Pride surged through Nasir, a spirit that he had seen, learnt and inherited from those whose company he had shared over the past season. 'Then I shall go to my death gladly,' he declared, 'and welcome it as close friend.' Hearing sounds outside the door, Nasir spoke quickly, knowing that he had only moments to convey the last of his message. 'Aemelia. This man who will seek me stands tall and hails from lands east of the Rhine. He goes by Agron. You must tell him he forever holds my heart. Keep words in mind, I beg you. I would have him know them.'

Aemelia hesitated before finally nodding, her expression a strange combination of anger, bitterness and sorrow as she dwelt on past losses of her own. Nasir reached out a hand to grasp hers in desperate gratitude even as the door banged open and a quartet of Roman guards entered. Striding over in close formation, they unlocked his chains from the wall and pulled him to his feet before leading him away.

As the guards hustled him towards his fate through an open courtyard caught in the strange half-light that hovered before encroaching dusk, Nasir craned his neck upwards, suddenly desperate to see the new-born stars one last time before he risked death. Yet he was denied his wish, for dark storm clouds bracketed the sky, casting a heavy gloom and strange humidity over the shadowed world that lay beneath them. Despite the newly lit fire in his heart, Nasir felt a chill run through him as several drops of heavy rain fell upon his upturned face. The gods were displeased, he knew it. And they would wreak their vengeance from the heavens upon the earth below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Mach es dir selber-go fuck yourself
> 
> Schwachsinniger-simple minded one


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind reviews and kudos! I hope you enojy the new chapter!

'Fuck the gods!' Agron roared as he paced back and forth in front of the flooded ford. The steady parade of Roman tracks they had followed for long miles through forest, plain and wood led directly to the water's swirling edge and, if he squinted through the gathering darkness and pelting rain, he could make out their reappearance on the other side of the blackly swollen river. He swore again, more violently, cursing the events that had led them to such an obstacle.

As the sun had sunk low into the horizon, the clouds that Spartacus had noted had blanketed the sky, a solid iron-grey wall between the heavens and the earth. They had hung, ominous and heavy for some time before finally breaking, triggering a vast, sudden downpour that had drenched Agron and his companions as they ran steadily onwards, ignoring aching muscles that screamed for rest in attempt to make up distance and time. Knowing they had only a short while before the tracks they followed were washed away by mud and rain, they had hastened their pace only to be stopped abruptly in their path at the bank of a rushing river where black water had swelled thunderously upwards, sweeping and swirling about a now impassable ford that was littered with broken logs and scattered debris.

Spartacus was stood before it with his arms crossed, his face lost to ominous shadows as he examined the way ahead. 'Choice is taken from us,' he said finally, his voice nearly lost beneath a violent gust of rain that struck the group with angry force as they gathered tightly about him. 'We must seek other crossing.'

'Distance is too great,' Naevia pointed out. Her short dark hair was plastered wetly to her face and shoulders and her voice was hoarse as she struggled to make herself heard over a vast crack of lightning that broke the sky, splintering into dozens of tiny fingers that grasped and clawed, desperate the reach the solid earth. 'We shall lose precious time!'

'What option have we? I will not risk lives to make crossing here!'

Agron's temper flared and snapped, pushed to its limit by worry, stress and a cavernous fear that threatened to swallow him whole. 'Throw fucking caution to the winds!' he shouted against the howling of the storm. 'Nasir is out there, in Roman hands! I will not lose him to fucking rain!'

'We cannot help Nasir if we ourselves are dead!' Spartacus argued. 'We shall move to next ford then retrace steps to pick up tracks once more.' His voice brooked no disagreement and Agron spun from him, spitting curses and throwing off Donar's restraining hand as he strode once more to the water's edge to sight again the distant tracks which were still visible, though badly distorted.

Spartacus looked around at the small group as the pelting rain finally began to slow to lesser drizzle. 'The gods themselves oppose us, yet I would not have them triumph. We will get Nasir back. Now, go!'

* * *

Despite the burning in his blood, Nasir felt a shiver chase through his body as he was led into a high-ceilinged room adorned with loose, finespun drapes and lit only by sparse lamps along the walls. A large number of heaped, richly coloured cushions and rugs were scattered across the floor, creating a soft, raised stage at the centre of the room. Behind it, positioned opposite the single doorway, was a table cloaked in white cloth and covered in silver platters laden with generous piles of green olives, sliced figs and bright, succulent fruits, as well as mounds of dark bread and several flagons of rich red wine. Secundus had prepared well for his guests.

Nasir did not know if he trembled so with determination or fear. Though the fire in his heart had at first burnt strong as he had been marched through the villa's endless corridors, it had slowly begun to ebb and gutter as the full weight of Aemelia's warning descended upon him, casting a terrible shadow across his very soul. His mind jumped jaggedly from one path to another. He knew he could not go to his fate an obedient slave. Even now his stomach twisted, violent and sick, at the mere thought of unwanted hands playing upon his body. Surely the death of which Aemelia had warned was better than suffering that touch, than becoming slave once more and bowing to the will of those he held bitter enemy? Yet, on the other side of the coin, was the pressing thought that there was no worse path from the world than by a Roman sword. And now, unlike when he had risked life to make attempt on that of Spartacus, he had much to live for.

Confusion and clashing thoughts drove him slowly to a strange numbness where his mind grew hazy and unsettled, a feeling bolstered by the hazy scents of incense and salacious oils that hung in the room. Unsure and unsteady, his mind began to play tricks with him. Taunting images flashed before his eyes as though he dreamed them-Agron storming the villa with Spartacus at his side, taking him from the nightmare in which he had found himself, of Mira and Naevia standing before him, opposing those who would take advantage, of Donar splitting Roman skulls as Crixus tore helmeted soldiers limb from limb.

Hope yet remained for rescue, he told himself thickly, depending how long it had taken Crixus and Lugo to return to the temple, how soon a rescue party had been dispatched, whether they had suffered any delay. He knew it was distant chance. He had heard the thunder of rain upon the tiled roof of the villa and had understood it would make travel more difficult, washing away tracks and muddying paths. Even so, he found himself clinging to the chance that Agron would come for him, and so to the life that such a hope offered.

The thought came, heavy and dim, that he needed to retain control. He shook his head, doing his best to ignore the sickly perfumes that coated the air, and the fog in his head lifted a little, allowing him to think more clearly. He would not throw his life away, not if the slightest chance for rescue remained. He would wait for the last possible moment to resist and do so only if there was no other option left to him. He would play the slave, use old instincts that still lived within him to duck his head and obey, and only cast them off if all choice was removed.

A hand wrapped around his forearm and he found himself propelled forwards, towards the cushions where Secundus Livius was standing, his gaze waiting and eager as he spoke, ordering his soldiers to remove Nasir's bonds. Hope plumed, abrupt and fierce, within Nasir but it faded quickly as he realised that one of the men, the one who held him, was hesitating.

'Dominus,' the man said, clearing his throat respectfully, 'once more would I urge caution. Leave bonds upon the slave. He bore weapon when we came upon him in the woods and may yet-'

Secundus let out an unexpected chortle of laughter, cutting the guard off mid-sentence. 'You believe the rebel scum would think it of worth to train this slut in battle?' he asked. His voice had gained an impatient, mocking edge.

The guard opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, clearly too familiar with the dominus' ways to risk answer. Nasir cast a quick look at him. He was an older man, with iron-grey hair and broad shoulders that spoke of age and strength, of one who had known battle and emerged victorious.

Secundus, however, seemed to have no care for the caution of his captain. 'Hah! Tiberius stands but a body slave, skilled at nothing but satisfying needs of his master! Likely he has been fed cock morning and night since first taken from my brother's villa. No, I would have him free of bonds.'

The guard remained recalcitrant, tightening his grip so his strong fingers dug into muscles that Nasir could not help but clench. 'Dominus, with respect, I must offer counsel-'

'Well enough!' Secundus snapped. What seemed to be a short temper, so like that of his brother, frayed at the opposition to his will. 'If only to put quiet to petty words, remove only shackles at his feet. But make haste! My guests await!' At a nod from their captain, the guards set themselves to obeying orders and Secundus raised his voice, which had become suddenly full of cheer and importance. 'I would have you enter, friends!' he called towards the open doorway of the room.

Nasir watched, his heart beginning to pulse deep in his chest, as a number of Romans entered, their eyes eager and curious as they took in the extravagance of the scene before them. Each bore drink in hand and was clothed in luxurious robes of red and blue and a vivid green, the sort of which Nasir had only seen when his old dominus had visited a major town, bustling and wealthy from booming trade. Gold jewellery hung at the newcomers' wrists and necks, a callous contrast to his own dull shackles, and bright jewels of amber and emerald glinted in the women's elaborately styled hair, glittering in the shifting light thrown by the burning lamps.

Though careful to keep his face a blank mask of propriety, Nasir balked inwardly as two of the newcomers caught his eye, each striking within him a discordant note of remembrance. They had been present when Secundus had first returned to his villa with Nasir in tow, waiting at the entrance of the property. As Secundus had greeted them with open arms and affected words of welcome, Nasir had immediately recognised their names from his years serving his former dominus. Terentia Cassius and her brother Severus were both high-ranking members of Roman society, wealthy, proud and used to wielding the power that had been held by their family for generations beyond count. Upon entrance to the villa, they, along with Secundus, had listened to his tale of fleeing the rebel camp. Yet unlike Secundus, he had doubted their belief for, as he had spoken of his escape, the gazes of both brother and sister had fallen upon him, chill, sceptical and haughty.

He looked at them now, curiosity momentarily overcoming his caution. Both had pale hair that was swept elaborately back from chiselled features, the woman's piled high upon her head in a soft style that jarred against her angled jaw, the man's combed and parted with the greatest of precision. Their skin was alabaster, almost like marble, and they stood out even against those whose company they kept, radiating confidence, arrogance and superiority.

Nasir looked down at a tug by his feet, his attention caught. Having finished unlocking the shackles that bound his feet, the guards were removing them, carrying them over to the side of the room where they deposited them out of sight. Briefly, Nasir relished the cool breath of air that flowed against the torn skin at his ankles, thinking again of possible escape. Yet, looking around, his hopes were quickly dashed. The guards were not leaving the room as he had expected, but instead were positioning themselves about, two at the doorway and the others against the walls, so that he and the group of Romans were completely encircled, for whose protection he did not know.

Focused on the soldiers, Nasir was caught off guard as a hand reached out and nudged him downwards. Mindful of Aemelia's warning and his own thought to play the slave, he obeyed, dropping to his knees and offering only minor reluctance as the guests gathered round him as they edged closer to the circle of cushions, still sipping at their wine. Secundus had moved to stand so close to him that their skin brushed, and Nasir clenched his teeth as the man reached down and ran soft fingers over his hair, caressing and stroking as though he was a favoured pet. He noticed that one of the women, whose dark auburn hair was styled carefully in loose curls that fell over the shoulder of her forest-green robe, was watching him with wide, doe-shaped eyes. Clearly this was the first time she had witnessed such entertainment.

'He is beautiful,' he heard her whisper to her neighbour.

Her tall, slim-bodied companion laughed, running the tip of her finger over the narrow rim of her wine cup. 'I admit, envy beckons at his dark locks. If only mine were similar.'

Nasir closed his eyes as fleshy fingers whispered over his jaw, turning his face this way and that as though he stood an object to be admired, examined, owned. Yet, while every part of him desired to strike out in anger, he forced himself to hold as a statue and show no sign of fight, not yet. Rescue could still come.

The first woman was still talking, her voice becoming louder in her fascination. 'I would have him remove that lovely pin he wears,' she said. 'I wish to see his hair about face.'

Nasir felt his cheeks burn. Holding himself rigid, he ignored the woman and did not move. Yet a sharp breath was forced from him as Secundus' blunt fingers tangled in his hair close to his scalp, his bitten-down nails digging in cruelly.

'Obey order, Tiberius.'

Slowly, Nasir reached up with both hands, the chains at his wrists clanking, and fingered the long-toothed metal pin that Aemelia had used to fix his hair at the back of his head. He tugged at it and it slid free easily, loosing his hair so it fell down around his face and settled against the nape of his neck. Delighted giggles and a couple of low chuckles echoed through the room, and another unfamiliar hand reached out to him, small and slender this time, running through his hair and smoothing it behind his ears.

So tense he thought his very body would shatter into a thousand fragments, Nasir lowered his arms, still clasping the pin between clumsy fingers that seemed strangely unwilling to bend. They felt strange, cumbersome, as though they were not his own. He looked down, focusing on the pin he grasped with increasing desperation as he struggled to ignore the growing number of straying touches upon his face and chest. He knew suddenly, with a hollow, sickening blow that struck him to his core, that rescue would not come, not in time, at least. He would have to resist, alone and unaided and, if Aemelia's words bore true, face the surety of death at the hands of some unknown Roman. He could only hope that Secundus would not force him to serve before he met his end.

Somewhere around him a lamp guttered, flickering in unseen wind. The heady scent that permeated the room grew stronger and he found his eyes following the quivering play of the lamplight as it fell upon his surrounds, glinting invitingly on the long, solid spoke of the hair pin he yet clutched between his palms. Abruptly, he stilled, his gaze fixed on the sharpened point as his own words rang shallowly in his mind. _Then I go to my death gladly…and welcome it as close friend._

His thoughts began to race. Perhaps chance yet remained to ensure he would avoid what was about to occur. He had heard the rebels break words of such a thing when conversation between them had turned dark, led there one evening by too much wine and a day of bloodied battle, with minds made slow and prying by the play of restless shadows and dying campfires. They had spoken of choosing death over capture to avoid the dread fate of death by Roman hands.

Nasir stared at the pin clutched between his hands, then slowly moved a finger to prick softly against the tapered point at one end. The path he looked down was shadowed, yes, yet surely it held greater honour than what stood before him. At least this way, he would be the one to end his own life and at time of his own choosing, rather than waiting for a hated Roman to bestow the final blow because he resisted what no one should be forced to bear.

He would wait for the last moment though, and give Agron every chance.

The sound of his Roman name made him look up. Secundus was speaking to his guests, his voice light and jesting. 'I bear gift for Tiberius,' he said jovially, 'to welcome him to my household.' He gestured to one of the guards, who moved forwards bearing a single item which he offered up to the dominus.

A collar.

Nasir closed his eyes, unable to watch as Secundus took the hated object from the guard. Yet he was powerless to stop the shudder that racked every muscle of his body as he felt his hair being lifted from around the nape of his neck and the dark collar settle close about his throat, its heavy weight wrapping around, tight and choking, before it was latched together and he was slave once more.

'At last, the rebel slave is reminded of his place,' came the voice of Severus Cassius, speaking for the first time that night.

Beside him, his sister laughed, the sound high-pitched and jarring to Nasir's ears. 'All rebels are but slaves whose memory has slipped of their place in the world,' she observed cuttingly. There were titters around the room as the others gathered there voiced their agreement.

Her brother spoke again, to Secundus this time, his voice sharp and amused. 'I admit, I stood surprised upon learning you harboured intent to take this slave to your bed, what with his flesh so marred.' Nasir stiffened as he felt a trail of cold fingers upon his chest. Opening his eyes, he found Severus stood before him, his arm outstretched as he traced the distinctive scar he had gained upon flight from the mines.

'Gaze recoils at such foul mark,' Severus continued, his sharp nails digging in a little deeper to the reddened, sensitive flesh, threatening to pierce the yet-healing wound. He drew back, his lips curled thinly in disgust. 'Who knows where he has been, what he has done?'

Nasir found himself pulled off balance as Secundus moved forwards to wrap his fingers around his collar, tugging on it so there remained not an inch between them as he made answer. 'Such are Tiberius's virtues that I am well able to discount his past,' he said. 'He stood favoured by my departed brother, holding high position in his household. Often was I envious of him for possessing a slave of such form! It brought to memory days spent as child beside him, always jealous of favours bestowed by our dear mother upon her eldest!' He chuckled. 'Truth holds, gaze lingered often on Tiberius as my brother delivered lecture on how to improve my fortunes in life! How irony strikes to know all needed was his death!'

There was laughter about the room, but Nasir's blood ran cold to hear Secundus speak so callously of his brother's passing even as Secundus continued, enjoying the attention given to him by his audience.

'Fortune truly favoured me when I stumbled upon Tiberius when making journey to this very villa and I was absent hesitation in giving order to take him alive.'

'What of his time spent amongst the rebel slaves?' demanded Terentia, wrinkling her nose. 'Surely that gave some pause?'

A possessive hand tangled in his hair forced Nasir to crane his neck upwards so that he met Secundus' pale eyes, which were lit bright with greed and power. 'The gods would find words false if I claimed such time did not make Tiberius of even greater interest to me. Besides, for his beauty alone, I would overlook much.'

Secundus was quiet for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision, for he released Nasir and waved a hand abruptly towards his companions. 'I must beg your leave, friends, for I wish for solitude with my new slave. I would remind him of his place before he serves honoured guests.'

With a mixture of exaggerated groans and tittering laughter, the guests removed themselves from the room, though the pale-haired brother and sister lingered briefly by the door before leaving, their gazes icy and chill on Nasir. Finally, they left, and Nasir was alone with only Secundus and the guards still positioned against the walls. Once more, Nasir's heart flared. The chains at his feet that prevented flight had been removed and most of the Romans had left. Surely he could break for freedom?

Yet the sudden pressure of Secundus' soft fingers flush against the hollow of his back caused all thoughts of escape to flee far and wide as memories swamped him, leaving him panting and panicked. The touch was so familiar, so like that of his former dominus. He had been here before, many a time. He knew what was to come, the forced pleasure, the pain of cruel hands intent only on their owner's gratification. He knew his orders and his place in the world, there to serve those who held mastery over him and his like.

Yet, somewhere amidst the dark chaos of his thoughts, a spark flailed wildly, a sense of self formed only recently, but which supplanted all he had been for so many years. He grasped onto it, clinging, desperate. This time, he would not obey. His hand closed around the hair pin, gripping it tight. He would delay no more.

He caressed the pin's sharp point, feeling the coolness of the metal bite like ice against his flushed skin. He would have only one chance. Taking a deep breath, he sought a place of calm from which to accomplish task. His eyes fell upon the pin that glinted so merrily in the quivering lamplight and he gazed at it, transfixed, taking in the precise detail of its ornamental head, noticing for the first time that it was carved in the form of a lotus bud.

It had been many months since he had worn any kind of ornament in his hair, having long found that such things had strong tendency to slide free in the speed and heat of a fight, leaving him vulnerable to momentary blindness as he shook his hair free from his eyes. Upon learning of his predicament, Agron had at first laughed, commenting on his vanity that he would wear any sort of decoration into battle and teasing him that he should wear his hair short, as he did himself. Yet when Nasir had one night brought a blade to their bed and held it to his hair, threatening to remove it once and for all, it had been Agron who had sworn a foul oath about Syrian stubbornness before wresting weapon from Nasir's grasp. He had disappeared into the darkness that lay outside their quarters and returned bearing a short narrow strip of black ribbon with which to bind back the offending locks. He had tied it himself into Nasir's braid, warning all the while of dire retribution if Nasir sought to pursue such drastic action again.

A faint smile came to Nasir's lips at the memory and he felt his heart surge with warmth as the events of the past year swept through his mind like sunlight through trees. He thought of Spartacus, who had offered him both life and choice, of Crixus who had given his life for Naevia in the mines. He thought of Naevia herself, who had fought to preserve her life for the single wish to see her heart again, surviving what would have brought so many others to their end. He thought of Lugo, of Mira, of Donar, Gannicus and Saxa. All had survived hardship, all had battled to win their lives and their freedom from Rome.

Mostly, however, he thought of Agron, of his strength and stubbornness and arrogant pride, the way his gaze grew intense and bright whenever it fell upon Nasir. He thought of his skill in battle and the roughness of Agron's teeth on the flesh of his throat as they took to their bed. He thought of laughter as it rumbled deep in Agron's chest as he lay with Nasir pressed against him, curled into the curve of his body, of Agron's shout as his sword struck Nasir's own, training him so he could fight for a cause in which they both believed, against the monstrous power of Rome and those like Secundus, Terentia and Severus, who would take all from them and others.

The flood of images ceased, leaving behind a single memory that sparked bright and furious in his mind-of Agron bellowing advice as he drove his sword against Nasir's own, without pause, without rest, without give. Quickly, another memory joined it, of Agron and Spartacus together teaching him the spear, a weapon that extended his reach and favoured his size, whilst proving just as deadly as the more commonly used sword. Another memory, of Agron standing before him, knife in hand, showing him how to cut a man's throat with little more than a flick of his wrist, of Agron reaching out a casual arm as they stood beside each other and Nasir leaning into it, expecting a caress yet finding himself flat on his back, staring up into Agron's stern face as he warned him to keep his senses sharp at all times. Another memory came, of Agron landing blow after blow upon a round shield that he had given Nasir, teaching him to defend himself with it before he had turned everything Nasir had known of battle on its head by showing him how to use the shield's curved surface and sharp edge as weapons with which to launch attack.

Agron had taught him to fight. And Agron would have him fight, even if death waited at struggle's end. He would not have Nasir take his own life, not when chance remained, however slight, that Nasir could save himself, or at least offer battle to his enemies. It had been Spartacus who had begun his training, but Agron had continued it, teaching Nasir everything he knew of battle, how to attack with sword and shield, spear and knife, how to use his bare hands and feet to bring down a grown man. Agron had taught him how to duck and weave and how Nasir could use his size against a larger opponent. He had taught him to attack and defend, to use his mind against an enemy who relied only on his body. Tactics, manoeuvres, strategy, instincts, all were things that Agron had drilled into him again and again, not caring if Nasir used the knowledge there and then, or even showed an interest, but content that he had shared it so Nasir could seize upon it if needed. Agron had taught him to fight, not only so Nasir could aid the rebel cause, but also so that he could protect himself and others.

And as soft hands began to trail over his body, making his flesh crawl and shiver, Nasir thought of Agron and who Agron had helped him become, and he realised that he had already made his choice.

Dropping forwards onto his hands, he kicked out behind him, feeling his foot connect with a fleshy jaw. He heard a pained squeal. Not waiting for an answering blow, he twisted and rolled so that he fell to the floor away from the cushions, landing hard upon his back. The chains struck him a cruel jolt against his ribs but he ignored it, focusing instead on the shouts of the guards as they came running towards him. They were too slow. Another twist of his body and he had gained his feet and wrapped his fingers in the chains at his wrists so they would not get in his way, all the while making sure he kept his desperate grip on the bronze hair pin clenched in his fist. He ducked a grasping hand, dismissing it as beneath his notice, and launched himself forwards, folding his body into itself and rolling so that he gained his feet right in front of the guards.

With a sharp hiss, he slashed forwards towards a bared throat and watched, satisfied, as blood plumed through the air, the narrow spoke of the pin tearing cruelly into the soft flesh below the man's jaw. The guard stumbled and dropped to the floor and Nasir spun on his heel and stabbed downwards with all his strength, driving the pin deep into flesh before rising, looking at once for the next attacker, who had circled around behind him. Recognising the man who had protested against the removal of his chains, Nasir ducked a swing of a sword, then stabbed out with the pin once more. That guard, too, stumbled and fell, his sword spilling from his hand and dropping onto the cushions with barely a sound.

Seizing opportunity, Nasir released his grasp on the chains at his wrists. Slipping the hair pin into the leather belt at his waist, he grabbed at the handle of the sword lying abandoned on the floor. Raising it before him, he glanced wildly around, tightening his grip on both sword and pin. The first two guards had been caught by surprise, expecting only to face a cowed slave. He would not have such luck with those remaining. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied one of the guards making for the door and launched himself after him, only to feel a slashing pain in his side as another sword caught him on the ribs, cutting through bared flesh. Nasir turned, instinctively raising his weapon, all of the hours he had spent training under the hot sun with Agron giving him much needed strength. He moved forwards, deflected a strike, then attacked, driving the man back towards the wall and finishing him with a blow that removed head from shoulders.

Panting furiously and acutely conscious of the trail of blood that trickled slickly down his side, he forced himself to pause and take stock of his surrounds. A soft gurgle came to his ears and he turned to see Secundus lying on the cushions some feet away from him, his face pale and a darkening bruise forming on his cheek. Breathing hard, Nasir stepped forward. He stared at Secundus, sword firm in hand, gazing down at the man who had dared lay hand upon him, had ordered collar round his neck, had put him in chains like some dog.

Through the battle haze that was in his mind, it took him a moment to realise that Secundus was speaking.

'Tiberius!' he groaned, his face stark white beneath an unnatural flush. 'Have mercy! Kindness lay in heart. I gave you welcome to my household when others would have bestowed only death. I offered shelter from Spartacus and his rebels! I gave you opportunity-'

Nasir lowered his blade so it rested over Secundus's neck, and the man silenced beneath him, his words dying in a strangled gasp. 'Gave?' he repeated. 'You gave nothing! You and your kind would take all from me if given chance!' He thought of Aemelia, another slave in this man's household who had suffered under her dominus, and he delivered a sharp kick to Secundus's side, drawing forth a pained gasp. 'Those you name slave live in fear's shadow, that you might deliver death if order is disobeyed. Yet they shall fear reprisal no more.'

He moved without thinking, filled only with loathing for all the man before him represented. Placing his sword carefully on the cushions, far from any reaching grasp, he looped the chains about his wrists around Secundus' neck so they formed a loose collar. Tugging at them so they were pulled taut, he twisted the chains with all his strength, putting all his weight behind it. For a moment, Secundus did not seem to realise his intent, yet then, as a horrible wheezing sound started to emerge from his throat, realisation dawned in his pale eyes and he began to plead with haggard breaths that quickly turned to gasps and gurgles. Nasir watched him, his heart twisted with hate and fear and pulsing anger as Secundus strangled beneath him. Aemelia had told him of the cruelty of this man. Nasir had been about to experience it for himself. Secundus deserved death.

A sound outside startled him. Loosening his grip, he turned, remembering too late about the third guard, the one who had made break for the door and escaped unnoticed as Nasir dealt with his companion. No doubt he had sought help. With a soft curse, Nasir realised that he was out of time. Swiftly, he glanced down at Secundus, who still drew breath, if barely. Knowing he had no other option, Nasir disentangled the length of chain from around the fleshy throat and made for the door that led to the rest of the villa, closing it quickly and quietly. Next, moving to the side of the room, he upset the table of sweet fruits and other such treats and dragged it over to the doorway, turning it on its side and shoving it against the door to make a crude barrier. It would buy him a little time, if not much.

Picking up his sword again, he cast his gaze across the room, doing his best to ignore the wound at his ribs, which was still bleeding, more heavily now, sending an acrid smell of blood to his nostrils. No windows, no other door. He was trapped. A harsh bang made him jump and he swung back to face the door, which had begun to shudder as blows were delivered to it from the other side. Momentary panic threatened to overtake his mind, but he forced it down, thinking once more of what Agron had taught him. If strength could not win, strategy must suffice. He knew that however many Roman soldiers stood on the other side of the door, they would outnumber him, and their strength and weapons would easily outmatch his own, even if he was free of the cumbersome chains around his wrists. Surprise would be his only weapon. They would expect a slave. Instead, he would give them a warrior.

He readied himself only moments before the door burst open, breaking off its latches and crashing to the floor, sending the table flying. At once, Nasir charged, barrelling into the force of guards gathered just beyond the door, throwing them off balance with his weight and striking out with his sword, then ducking and weaving amongst them, using his small size to the best of its advantage. He felt a second line of sharp fire slice across his upper arm as a guard's blade caught at his ribs, then another across his thigh, but he kept going, refusing to acknowledge the pain as he broke through the last of the guards and bolted, racing down the corridor and through the twisting passages of the villa, his bare feet striking hard against the stone floors. Once he passed a man who had been one of Secundus' guests, cloaked in a long blue robe and standing frozen in the middle of a corridor. Unwilling to stop, Nasir struck out with his sword and continued on, passing the room where Aemelia had prepared him. He kept running, out a door, through a passage, into the room where he had waited for so long that morning.

Finally, he found an open doorway that led into the front courtyard of the villa. He burst through it, his breath coming in harsh pants. He could see the faint grey outline of the gateway to the outside world before him, only a dozen yards away. His lungs burnt like fire, his legs ached, yet he gritted his teeth and quickened his pace, so determined now. Finally, he was at the walls, he was climbing up them, chains jangling, hand over hand, his sword clutched tight, until he was perched on the topmost ledge. He swung his legs over, feeling cold stone beneath bare flesh, and looked over the dark world that stretched before him, the sparse terrain lit only by the stars half-hidden by clouds, the soils and bushes and trees gleaming silver and wet. He could see mountains in the distance, no more than gentle slopes really, and before them a wood, deep and shadowed and laced with tall pines. That was where his escape lay.

Glancing down, he focused on the significant distance that remained between him and the ground. He was close, so close, too close to give up now. Dropping his sword to the earth below, he leant down so that he was flat-chested to the ledge, feeling the pin at his waist cut into his skin, then writhed and twisted so he hung off the wall, grasping its edge with only the tips of his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he let go and dropped, landing on the damp earth with a shock that shook him to the bone, but forcing himself to relax and roll as he had been taught. Without waiting to catch his breath, he turned and headed for the black shadow of the woods, where he could hide from the guards that were certain to pursue him. As he ran, he allowed himself to take a deep breath. Even if only for a time, he was free.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading, and the lovely comments and kudos! There's an extra warning for violence in this chatper, but no worse than in the show.

Nasir woke to the pitch darkness of the woods at night. He could see nothing, only feel the soft touch of misting rain against his upturned back and the slipperiness of wet rock pressed against his bare chest and legs. Somewhere above him, he heard the low hooting call of a night bird, and over to his left leaves rustled as an unknown creature made its slow way over the rain-soaked ground, searching for food and prey.

With effort, he clenched his fingers until his knuckles grazed the uneven ledge of rock on which he lay face-down, his limbs sprawled akimbo. He forced himself to raise his head. Slowly, as his eyes grew used to the dark, he was able to make out vague shapes-his hands before his face, the rough stone surface on which he lay, the occasional dull gleam of the chains that yet bound his wrists. He groaned heavily. Every part of him ached, a deep, painful throbbing that robbed him of strength and was laced by exhaustion, blood loss and injury.

Carefully, he summoned his strength and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He had fallen, he remembered, tripping upon the very ledge of rock on which he lay. Fool. So close to escape and yet he had been careless enough to miss his footing and spill to the ground, losing consciousness and throwing what meagre freedom he had gained into jeopardy.

He winced as a sharp pain glanced through his head. Gingerly, he reached up with one hand and pressed the tips of his fingers against his scalp, searching for an open wound. He grimaced as the shackles at his wrists clanked loudly in the near silent woods, then swore under his breath as his fingers located a tacky patch of half-dried blood at his temple, matted thick and solid against his hair. Looking around, he was just able to make out a matching stain of equal size on the rock ledge before him, gleaming wetly amongst the dull shadows. He must have hit his head when he had fallen. He cursed again, soft and silent. Who knew how much time he had lost with his carelessness, how much time had passed? How close were his pursuers now? For he was certain that he would be pursued, if not by Secundus himself, then by the guards of his household. Those of them he had not killed or wounded in his escape, at least.

He had to move. Propping his hands beneath him and feeling the earth wet and cold from the earlier rainstorm, he forced himself to his feet, staggering slightly and feeling his legs sway, coltish and unsteady. He had lost track of how many days it had been since his capture, but he knew that he had gone long without sufficient food and water. Such a lack had made him weak and the injuries he had gained during his flight had not helped. Remembering his wounds, he probed the gashes on his thigh and arm with wary fingers, and the deeper one at his ribs that still dripped blood. Apart from the last, he did not think they would hamper him too badly. They still bled sluggishly, and each would leave a scar, yet he was certain he could travel despite them. He would have to.

Summoning his strength, he staggered forward a step or two, feeling as though he was moving through a thick, clinging fog instead of insubstantial shadows. It was not long before he collapsed to the ground again. His head spun and his vision blurred, seeming to throw silvery streaks and spinning, glimmering shadows every which way through the night. The energy that had fuelled his escape had faded, leaving him weak and therefore, he knew, vulnerable. Remembering his sword, he scrabbled around for it, fingers moving blindly through the dirt and finally locating it some feet away, thrown there by his fall. He lurched towards it, only to falter as he heard shouts somewhere close by in the night.

Thought deserted him and panic set in. Pushing himself to his feet, he ran, forgetting his wounds, forgetting his weapon, knowing only that he must flee, away from the villa, away from the Romans, away from the nightmare he had found himself in. Footsteps sounded close by and he swerved away from them, barely aware of the chains at his wrists that jangled so brazenly, breaking the silence of the woods. Glancing up, he saw a pale face flash past in the darkness and heard a rough shout as the person to whom it belonged grasped for him, hands outstretched. He wrenched himself away, stumbling out of reach and ran onwards, only to stumble and fall as the ground beneath him disappeared and he was sent tumbling through the air to crash to a halt against a tree, his breath jolted out of his lungs and his ribs screaming. Trying vainly to draw in a breath, he forced himself up and onwards. Moments later came the sound of galloping hooves and the black form of a horse appeared at his side, large and heavy and snorting and bearing a rider, a swift and solid presence from which he knew there would be no escape. There were more shouts. The Roman on the horse’s back swung his fist and Nasir again found himself upon the ground, spitting blood and dirt from his mouth as he struggled to climb to his feet.

He made to run again but within seconds there were men surrounding him. His arms were seized and he was dragged forwards through a break in the trees, fighting and kicking and hissing. He knew nothing but the desire to get away, wanted nothing but to escape. But he was forced to his knees and two tall figures appeared, casting their shadows over him, blocking the faint light of the stars that rested high above in the clouded heavens.

He glared upwards, through the mist that clouded his vision, through the pain and fear and helpless rage, taking in the pale hair and alabaster skin of his captors.

‘Roman shits!’ he hissed, struggling as best he could against the arms that pinned him in place.

Terentia Cassius laughed, the noise cutting a cruel path through his ringing head. ‘Spirit returns to him with much speed!’

Her brother nodded his agreement, yet his own face was as granite as he gazed down at Nasir. ‘An idea, sister,’ he said. ‘Prior to returning this slave to his dominus, why do we not have some games?’ He bent down and grabbed Nasir by the chin, forcing him to meet his icy stare. ‘I would have Tiberius learn his place.’

\---------------------------

‘Hold!’

Agron halted unwillingly at the whispered order. ‘My sword hungers for Roman flesh,’ he growled, twisting round to glare at Spartacus as the man approached behind him, keeping close to the low stone wall that provided much needed shelter from any watchers in the night.

Spartacus nodded, his gaze following Agron’s as he returned it to the sumptuous, sweeping villa to which the tracks had finally led. It towered above the bare countryside that surrounded it, its white columns and flat roofs providing an imposing sight as they gleamed wetly under the cacophony of stars which had begun to emerge from behind their blanket of leaden grey clouds. A high stone wall surrounded it, a rarity for this form of property, but likely much needed as a means of defence and deterrence against roaming bandits or any other such group. Agron gave it little thought. The skills he had been taught in the ludus of Batiatus would make scaling such defences of minor consequence. A broad wooden gate was set into the walls, facing out to the east, where the sprawling folds of two adjoining hills broke the horizon, separated by a vast stretch of trees so dark it was almost lost to the night’s shadows.

‘Your sword will soon have the flesh it desires,’ Spartacus answered. ‘Yet it is with united attack that we stand best chance of securing victory.’

Agron snorted, then looked to Crixus as he came to kneel down next to them. Like him and Spartacus, Crixus was spattered with black mud that coated his calves, thighs and stomach, camouflaging him so that only his bare chest and face, both flecked with streaks of dirt and filth, seemed to melt out of the shadows.

Placing one hand on the grip of his sword, Crixus leaned in towards them, so close that Agron could see the beads of sweat that coated his forehead from the chase they had made to gain time lost to the rains. ‘Something is not right within,’ Crixus muttered darkly. ‘There has been some upset this night.’

Agron was silent, knowing that Crixus spoke the truth. The villa before them blazed with light, an angry beacon in an ocean of shifting shadows. From the property echoed shouts and calls and the whinnying of horses, coupled with the sporadic wailing of an upset child. The villa gates hung open, untended, and Agron wondered why they were so. Had it something to do with Nasir?

His fingers tightened around the grip of his sword. During the last long stretch of their journey, as they had fought to better their speed with every step, the fear that haunted him had hardened into a ruthless anger that pulsed and pounded, threatening vengeance to all in its way. He would make any Roman fuck who had laid hand on Nasir pay for their trouble.

Next to him, Spartacus gestured at him to move. Agron surged forward impatiently, followed by the rest of their small company. Each of them held weapon in hand, ready to attack on Spartacus’ order. Yet Spartacus only led them a bare stretch closer to the villa, moving with practiced swiftness from behind the crumbling stone wall to a sparse, prickly bush that was large enough to cover them all, then over to a scattered couple of fir trees which grew alone and sentinel on the sloping plain that was covered with starlit grass.

Finally, he came to a halt not a hundred feet from the westernmost side of the high wall that ran around the villa, formed of large blocks of a pale grey stone. Agron halted close behind him with Crixus at his side, and the rest of the group gathered about them, each making sure to keep crouched low to the ground. So close to the villa, they could easily hear the distinct shouts of men as those inside the walls milled about, apparently in great upset.

‘They provide simple target,’ Crixus growled, ‘undefended and unknowing of our approach. They fail even to place watch upon wall. Enough of this waiting. We must launch fucking attack and take back what they would have from us!’

Agron flicked a glance at him, taken back by the vehemence behind his words. He had not thought the man had ever held much concern for Nasir. Yet then he caught sight of Naevia, who stood at Crixus’ side, a mere slip in the shadows, and suddenly understood the Gaul’s determination. Nasir had played large part in securing Naevia’s return to Crixus’s arms. It now seemed that Crixus was determined to return favour.

Agron realised that Crixus was looking at him with his gaze coal-dark, clearly having felt his eyes upon him. Agron gave him a sharp nod, then turned to Spartacus, leaning in close. ‘As the fucking gods would have it,’ he murmured in his ear, loud enough for Crixus to hear, ‘when it comes to Nasir, I once again find myself in agreement with the Gaul.’

Spartacus’ mouth quirked in dark humour. ‘So be it,’ he said. He glanced around. ‘Ready yourselves. We attack on my signal.’

The Romans stood no chance. Agron and his fellows moved as deadly shadows through the night, clearing the gates and walls with ease, scaling them and dropping down into the main courtyard before anyone knew they were there. They came upon a household half-empty and in complete pandemonium. One by one, the few Roman men who remained within the villa walls fell to their swords, to be left lying where they died, their mouths slack and dripping blood as their glassy eyes stared unseeing into the starlit heavens.

Driving a finishing blow through the skull of the man he had just felled, Agron met with Saxa and Donar in the villa courtyard, ignoring the fearful, watching eyes of the women and curious house slaves who peered from the shelter of hallways or from behind elegantly towering columns. ‘Nasir?’ he demanded of them both as he sheathed his sword, having failed to find him in his short tour of the property. They shook their heads and Agron cursed, his temper, leashed for a short while as they had found their goal and made attack, rising violently as fear, hopelessness and fury warred within him.

A shout from Donar had him turning towards the opposite side of the courtyard, where a cloaked man could just be seen attempting to sneak towards the gates by pressing himself close against a tall wall dressed in shadow. Agron did not hesitate. With a few furious strides, he caught the man up and delivered a fierce kick to his legs, sending him sprawling into the mud face-first. Kneeling down, he grabbed the man’s shoulder and wrenched him round so he lay on his back, his mouth opening soundlessly as he gasped for breath. He was of middling years, with dark hair cut close and short and wide-set grey eyes that were filled with fear. Drawing his sword, Agron let the weight of it press heavily against the man’s fine blue robe, that looked to be made from rich, luxurious cotton, a far cry from the white cloth he had seen upon the watching slaves.

‘Stand you dominus of this villa?’ he demanded, nudging the sharp edge of the blade deeper into the folds of blue cloth, which began to blacken as the skin beneath broke and blood began to pool, dark and heavy.

The man shook his head frantically, even as his fingers clawed in the dirt, searching for a saviour or a weapon, Agron did not know. He frowned. The man’s breaths were too fast and shallow. Pulling back a little, he cast his eyes over the man’s body, noting the way he shook and the paleness of his face that was, he realised, more from loss of blood than from fear. The man had been wounded already. Agron growled, realising that he likely had little time before the man left the world for that beyond.

Leaning down, he grabbed the man’s robe between his clenched fist. ‘What happened this night?’ he demanded.

The man gasped, his eyes wide and terrified. ‘The slave…’ he managed. ‘The boy, he-‘

He cut off, choking on blood that had begun to trickle from the side of his mouth. Yet Agron was distracted from asking any further questions by the sound of his name.

‘Agron!’

He turned to see Naevia half-hidden in the doorway that led to the villa’s interior rooms. She beckoned him closer, her movements urgent. ‘Eyes need fall on what lies within!’ she called to him.

Agron looked between her and the man underneath him, conflicted. Either path might bear the answers he needed. Fortunately, he was relieved from making choice when Saxa stepped forward, daggers flashing in her hands as she spun them between her fingers. ‘Leave him,’ she said, in the tongue they shared. ‘He will sing like bird.’

With a nod of gratitude, Agron rose to his feet and strode after Naevia, who had already disappeared between the doorway. Quickening his strides, he caught up to her a little way down the passage and followed her through a multitude of passages that were littered with the bodies of dead Roman soldiers. Finally, they emerged into a large room lit by torches set high up on the walls. Crixus was there, his sword bloodied and with a cut on his forehead that was dripping blackly into his eyes as he waited for them. Agron looked about, taking in the bodies on the floor, the table that lay upset on its side, and the food and wine that was spilled haphazardly on the ground. Finally, he gazed at the luxurious pile of rugs and blood-stained cushions that sat in the middle of the room.

His mouth tightened. He had seen such rooms before, at other villas they had liberated, had spoken to the slaves they had freed there, and he knew well enough what such a stage was for. Beside him, Naevia was silent, and he knew that her thoughts had taken her on a similar path, into dark memories all too recent.

Crixus nodded towards the bodies that lay on the floor and gestured at them with the point of his sword. ‘Three men felled in here alone, and another outside the door. Your boy does well.’

Agron lifted his chin in acknowledgement, fighting back the fear that threatened to make itself known as the sight of the stage battered against his mind. ‘I would expect no less of Nasir.’

Sudden movement caught his eye and he spun to see one of the Romans whom they had taken for dead struggling to rise, despite the grievous wound that ran the breadth of his chest. Agron strode forward. Grabbing the man by his throat, he lifted him easily off the ground and slammed him against the wall, pressing his other arm against his throat. ‘Where are your fellows?’ he demanded. ‘Where stands the dominus of this villa?’

The man, who was older than Agron, with a line of grey hair at his temples, spat a mouthful of blood at him. ‘Fucking rebels!’

Agron found himself grinning, despite the fear and anger that battled for dominance within mind and heart. He turned to Crixus and Naevia. ‘Reputation proceeds us,’ he commented before he turned back to the man and drove his head against the wall, once, twice, then a third time, until he hung half-dazed, supported only by Agron’s arm against his neck as he struggled to lift up his head to speak.

‘How could it not?’ he muttered. ‘One of your own brought this villa to its fucking knees.’

Agron’s smile vanished. He leant closer, putting further pressure on the Roman’s windpipe. ‘You speak of some rebel? One taken most recently as slave here? Where is he?’

The man ignored him, instead starting to shudder as his life began to leave him. ‘Better that Secundus had put the shit down like the dog he was-’ he rasped out between breaths that grew ever more shallow, ‘rather than bestowing him with fucking collar!’

‘Where is he?’ Agron pressed furiously, but the soldier made no response, his lip instead curling in pleasure as the light faded from his eyes and he passed to the next world, denying Agron answer.

‘Fucking Roman shit!’ Letting the body drop, Agron strode over to the upset table and kicked at it with all his strength, sending it skidding across the clattering against floor so that it hit the wall just as Saxa entered the room, her daggers in one hand as she dragged the Roman that Donar had spied behind her with the other. The man’s robe had darkened even more and blood dripped from his nose and mouth, covering the lower half of his face with a foul red mask that gleamed in the torchlight.

‘Nothing,’ Saxa said, the word sounding strange and unfamiliar as she used what little broken Latin she knew. She swung the man up against a wall and pressed the point of one of her knives to his chest. ‘He speaks of Tiberius, not Nasir.’ She drew back her hand to drive her blade deep.

‘Hold!’ Agron surged forward, grabbing the man from her and slamming him against the wall himself. ‘Tiberius is the name Nasir went by as a slave.’ Lifting his sword, he held its point against the man’s neck and leant forwards. ‘You broke word of Tiberius to my friend?’

The man nodded, blood trickling out of his mouth as he choked on it.

‘Where is he?’

But the man’s body began to convulse as he continued to choke and gasp until his body went limp.

Agron threw the man’s lifeless body to the ground. ‘Fuck!’ He spun round to Saxa. ‘Stupid shit! He held fucking answer and yet you saw fit to take life!’

Unable to make out his words, yet clearly grasping his meaning, Saxa switched immediately into their own language. ‘Death would have come had knife found his gut or not,’ she retorted angrily. She cast a disgusted glance at the body of the Roman soldier that lay slumped against the wall by Agron’s feet. ‘And your own Roman fares no fucking better!’

‘Agron!’

Again Agron turned at the sound of his name to see Donar waiting at the door, his hand on its frame. ‘Spartacus desires immediate presence.’

Agron’s heart stuttered at the words, so reminiscent of those spoken by Mira back at the temple when he had first heard of Nasir’s capture. Immediately, he turned on his feel and followed Donar from the room, leaving the others behind.

Donar led him into a large chamber, luxuriously decorated with woven wall hangings, finely carved furniture made from wood and a large bed on which cowered a heavy man robed in fine white cloth, though it was stained red from a shallow wound in the man’s side. Spartacus stood over him, his bloodied sword gripped loosely in hand.

‘Agron,’ Spartacus said evenly, as Agron entered the room, his every sense alert for danger, ‘I would have you meet one who names himself dominus to the slave Tiberius.’

Agron’s blood surged so that he felt it would boil out of his very skin. He crossed the room so quickly he was hardly certain he had moved until he had stopped beside the bed. His every muscle tense, he reached down to seize the Roman cowering there by the front of his robes, barely noticing the deep purple welts that covered his neck, which seemed swollen beyond normal size. ‘You will speak fucking truth or have it cut from mouth,’ he growled, lifting the man bodily from the bed. ‘Where is Nasir? Find voice and speak!’

The man trembled in his grasp, his jowls shivering. ‘I know no one of that name,’ he gasped, his voice so hoarse and stuttering that it could barely be heard.

Agron stared at him, almost disbelieving, but Spartacus, who stood close by at his shoulder, cut in smoothly. ‘We seek the whereabouts of the one you call Tiberius,’ he said, his voice lending a calmness and strength that was far from Agron’s reach at that moment. ‘Speak and your death will be kind.’

The man began to shake his head, desperation in his eyes. ‘I know not! Tiberius made attempt on life when I went to bed him, then fled from villa! Soldiers went in pursuit, that is all I know!’

‘Where did he go?’ Spartacus demanded.

The man snivelled. ‘I know not! I swear it by the gods.’

Agron drew his sword and laid it at the man’s swollen throat. ‘And if you did?’

‘He would tell us.’ Spartacus laid a restraining hand on Agron’s shoulder. ‘Look upon his eyes. He stands coward. He would speak whatever truth would save his life. We must seek some other source of knowledge. I would have you go. Gather with others in courtyard. I will deal with this one.’

Agron scowled, knowing Spartacus’ words for sense. He released the man’s robes and had turned away when the man’s words of a moment ago caught up with him. Carefully, he laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword, where it hung sheathed by his side, and spoke without turning back towards the bed. ‘You stand dominus here?’ he asked softly. ‘And you sought to bed Tiberius?’

From the silence behind him, he could tell the man had realised he had spoken in error. ‘He was my brother’s body slave,’ the whisper finally came, so weakly it was barely audible.

‘And you harboured intent to make him your own? To bed him for your own fucking pleasure?’

There was no response this time. Agron nodded, just once, then spun and drove his sword through the man’s chest with all his strength. The dominus spluttered briefly, his eyes wide and fixed on the blade that was buried half into the mattress as blood bubbled from his chest and mouth and nose. Finally, he stilled and silenced and his gaze took on the glassiness of the dead.

Agron stared down at him, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘Death came too swiftly,’ he said, not taking his eyes of the body before him.

Spartacus nodded, clapping an understanding hand on Agron’s shoulder. ‘It served to speed our search.’

Agron shook his head. ‘Would that I had time to peel skin from flesh and bones before he left this world.’ All of his anger slipping suddenly from his grasp, he turned miserable eyes on Spartacus. ‘What the man spoke of…’

Spartacus sheathed his own sword at his belt, cutting Agron off. ‘He spoke of Nasir making attempt on his life,’ he said firmly. ‘And the villa was in upset before we made our presence felt. Nasir has proved he is not without defence. You have trained him well.’ He tightened his grip on Agron’s shoulder. ‘Hope remains high that we will find him, Agron.’

 ‘You are Agron?’

They turned as one to see a slim wisp of a girl silhouetted in the open doorway. Like the crash of waves upon the shore, Agron’s fury returned, as sharp and dangerous as it had ever been. In a few short strides he had her by the throat, her feet dangling up off the floor. The girl choked, her arms and legs dangling and her eyes wide in her white face, which paled even further as she laid a frantic gaze on the body on the bed.

‘Agron!’ Spartacus shouted. ‘Release grip before death seizes her! Look to collar! She stands slave here!’

Becoming aware of the dark strip of metal that he could just feel beneath his hand, Agron lowered the girl to the floor and let her go, keeping a sharp eye on her as she staggered backwards. ‘You spoke my name,’ he demanded. ‘How?’

The girl stared up at him, one hand clutching at her throat. ‘He told me of you,’ she rasped. ‘He said you held his heart.’

Agron’s heart began to beat faster. ‘You spoke to Nasir?’

The girl shook her head, confusion settling into her eyes. ‘The one I broke words with went by Tiberius,’ she said. ‘He told me a man named Agron would come for him.’

Agron’s heart clenched in his chest and he stepped forward, only to have the girl retreat from him with fear in her eyes.

Spartacus laid a restraining hand on Agron’s chest and pushed him back a few steps before moving forward himself. ‘Tiberius was small, yes?’ he asked her. ‘Dark of hair and skin?’

The girl nodded, dropping her hand to her side. ‘You are Spartacus?’ she asked nervously. ‘The bringer of rain?’

Spartacus nodded and a faint smile lit the girl’s face, ridding her of the fear that haunted her eyes. ‘He spoke of you as well. Plan was for him to serve my dominus. But he made escape.’

‘Escape?’ Agron repeated urgently, unable to keep silent despite Spartacus’ hand upon his shoulder. ‘‘Which way did his path lie?’

The girl’s eyes widened but she held her ground and pointed a tremulous hand. ‘West. He made for the mountains. Or so spoke the guards.’

Spartacus nodded. ‘You have our gratitude-’

‘Aemelia.’

‘Aemelia,’ Spartacus repeated. ‘I would have you wait upon our return with all others who were slaves here. Close gates and barricade all doors until we return. I would see each of you free from the bonds of slavery.’

The girl smiled, her narrow face softening with the expression, and she nodded resolutely. As Agron and Spartacus turned to go, she called them back. ‘Hold! Soldiers…a company of them, along with two of my dominus’ guests, they went in pursuit towards mountains. And Tiberius was not without hurt.’

Spartacus raised a hand in acknowledgement and farewell. ‘You have our gratitude, Aemelia.’ Swiftly, he ushered Agron out of the room and Agron went, pausing a moment to pull his sword free from the body on the bed. Together, they made for the central courtyard of the villa, breaking into a run in silent accord as they passed through the villa’s many corridors.

‘It seems liberating worthless house slaves is often of more worth than not,’ Spartacus murmured, as he jogged by Agron’s side.

Agron ignored him, looking instead out through an open window as they passed it and taking in the clearing sky and the faint brush of early dawn that he could see just starting to lighten the horizon. ‘Let us hope the girl speaks truth,’ he muttered. ‘I would have Nasir back in my arms before night ends.’

Spartacus nodded. ‘As would I, brother.’ He clapped a hand on Agron’s shoulder. ‘Come. We shall gather the others, then make pursuit towards the mountains. It is time to finish what Nasir began.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sadly the final chapter of this story, which I really hope you've enjoyed. I'm torn between being satisfied to have brought it to its end and being sad that I've finally finished it. Once again, thank you all so much for your kind words, kudos and, most of all, simply for reading.

With the energy of battle still racing through their blood, they ran as though pursued by wolves, one behind the other-Agron, Spartacus, Crixus, Saxa and Naevia, leaving Donar behind to assist the newly freed slaves in securing the villa. For the second time that night, they followed footsteps left in Roman wake, though the lingering darkness made it difficult to distinguish old tracks from new  as they made their way towards the dark mass of woods that hugged the two hillsides that lay some distance from the villa.

The going was hard. The downpour that had already hampered their progress had left the ground a dangerous quagmire of hidden puddles and slick mud that threatened to send them sprawling from their feet without warning. Yet they pressed on, uncaring of their harsh breaths and the mud that spattered their calves and thighs, clinging to their every limb as they ran towards the pale strip of sky, far in the distance, that signalled the coming of dawn.

It was not long before they found themselves deep within a maze of trees, surrounded on all sides by thick, trailing undergrowth that hid both rocky ledges and wandering roots that seemed designed to trip and tangle. Only the fading stars above lent them some direction, enabling them to spread out and search for any sign of Nasir’s flight. Fortune was not with them, however, for they found only a mass of tracks looping round each other in every direction and crossing in confusing circles. Though no one uttered word of it, each knew the tracks were those of the soldiers sent in pursuit of Nasir upon his break from the villa’s walls.

Though the knowledge weighed heavy on them, they nonetheless moved quickly amongst the tall tree trunks, scanning for sight or sound of Nasir’s whereabouts. The woods were mostly silent, broken only by the coughing bark of some animal and the occasional wet slap of leaves across bared skin as they ducked one after another under a low-hanging bough. Occasionally, they heard a faint crack echo through the night, a remnant of the now far-off storm that had caused them so much delay. The tracks, however, led them continually in that same direction and so they followed, with the sound getting louder with each passing step until they came to a halt in a slight break between the trees where the path seemed to diverge, with many tracks leading off in different directions.

Agron glanced around, his shoulders rigid with tension as he took in the chaos of tracks scattered over the muddy ground, noting that there were many hoofprints as well as signs of men travelling by their own worth. Anxiety mounted within him. Nasir, small and fleet of pace, might have been able to evade capture by soldiers travelling by foot, yet those on horseback would have proven more difficult for him to outpace.   

‘Which way do we turn?’ he demanded of Spartacus shortly as the man came up behind him, his own brow furrowed as he examined the wealth of tracks.

Yet his question was answered as another sharp crack shattered the quiet of the woods, louder than the others had been, and this time followed by a pale cry almost too faint for their ears to pick up on. Agron’s heart froze inside his chest. He knew that voice.

He did not have to give instruction to the others to follow him. As one, his companions had turned towards the sound and as it came again, a crack then a cry, they broke into a run around him, making for where the noise had come.  

Agron raced in front, throwing caution to the wind as he barrelled through the trees, trusting only to the gods that he would not trip nor stumble. He ran uncaring for the fierce slap of branches that hit his face and chest, nor for the roots that made attempt to wrap their wet, clinging tendrils around his legs and arms to drag him to the ground. He dodged obstacles where he could but otherwise wrenched his way through with brute force, blind to the blood he left behind as the branch of a tree ripped across the flesh of his shoulder even as fierce thorns tore at his chest and legs. He could hear crashes behind him as the others followed in his wake, but another sharp crack and cry drew him on, his heart beating as loud as a battle drum against his pounding chest as he raced through the ever-lightening wood with the sole purpose of finding the source of the sound.

The next crack that split the air seemed to come from by his very feet. He froze mid-stride, then braced his legs and threw back his weight in a desperate attempt to avoid plunging off the top of a steep hill that dropped down into a small, circular clearing in the trees. He pin-wheeled for an endless moment then found his balance, only to be hit from behind as Crixus barrelled into him, a dead weight that sent him reeling forward. It was Spartacus’ clutching hand that saved him, seizing in the buckles of his armour and dragging him back as Saxa and Naevia did the same for Crixus, preventing them both from crashing headlong down the hill and into the cluster of Romans gathered at its foot. 

With Spartacus’ steadying hand still upon his shoulder, Agron froze as he stared down at the scene before him. A squadron of Roman soldiers, bristling with swords and spears and flaming torches that were becoming almost unnecessary under the paling sky, stood gathered amidst a bare circle of earth that was clear of vegetation except for a single tree that stood at its very centre as though put there by the gods themselves.

Bare to the waist, Nasir was strung up from the tree so that he hung limply by his arms from one of its lower limbs, his wrists chained together and bound by thick ropes looped around a solid branch high overhead. Through the press of bodies that surrounded him, Agron could just make out the bloodied lines that crisscrossed Nasir’s back, forming cruel, slashing patterns. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth and harsh bruises were clearly visible against the pale skin of his arms and legs, even as the sun struggled to continue its climb above the horizon.

A man, tall and lean and cloaked in a light blue robe, stood in front of Nasir, with a woman at his side whose hair was as pale as that of her companion. As Agron watched, with a red haze of fury seeming to sink into place before his vision, the woman stepped forward and tugged at a thick black collar that was fastened around Nasir’s throat, jerking him forwards and pulling yet another stilted cry from his throat. There was blood smeared over the fine bones of her pale face. Agron tensed, his grip tightening on his sword. His dream of seeing Nasir bearing collar once more was coming true before his very eyes. And he knew how it ended.

Beside him, Spartacus held up a cautioning hand, his muscled chest rising and falling in harsh pants from their desperate sprint through the forest. ‘Hold position until order is given,’ he said, his voice no more than a bare breath in Agron’s ear.

Agron glanced at him, then back to the scene before him where Nasir hung bloodied and bound. ‘Fuck that,’ he muttered. With a cry that resounded throughout the woods and echoed into the pale dawn, he broke from cover and charged down the hill, making for the Romans, leaping over bushes and feeling his legs move ever faster as he gained speed. Within seconds, he made out Crixus at his side, sword outstretched, and Saxa only step or two behind, her long legs eating up the ground as she unsheathed her daggers, with Naevia running at her heels. Then Spartacus was there, roaring his battle cry so that it mingled with Agron’s own.

They were upon their enemies almost before they realised they were there, and the Romans fell in great swathes around them. Agron gloried as his blade parted Roman flesh, uncaring for the carnage he left in his wake. He saved the pale-haired ones for last, the image of the woman’s hand grasping the collar that bound Nasir’s neck seared into his mind like the mark of the brotherhood. He drove his sword into her chest before turning to pursue her companion, who had broken for the far side of the clearing, abandoning the woman to her fate upon first sight of the rebels’ charge. Agron caught up to the man in a few easy steps, then, with one swift blow, removed first an arm before going for his neck, relishing in the ease of his victory. The man’s body toppled slowly to the ground, his head coming to rest some feet away, and Agron drew to a halt, breathing harshly.

He swept the clearing with a sharpened gaze, assuring himself that the last of the Romans lay dead and provided no further threat. Around him, his companions were dealing finishing blows, though Naevia was still caught in battle with one of the Roman guards. Crixus stood near, his coal-dark eyes satisfied as he watched Naevia drive her short blade through her opponent’s ribs before slashing his throat open with a wild scream.

Satisfied that danger was removed, Agron looked to Nasir, who was hanging limp and bloodied from the tall tree, showing no sign that he even realised the rebels were there.

A strange roaring started in Agron’s ears, similar to the noise of the arena. It drowned out all else, blocking both light and sound, until all that was left was Nasir hanging before him, still and unmoving. He stepped forward, then again, and then once more until he was running, desperate to set eyes and hands upon Nasir, knowing only that for too long had he been absent his side.

He came to an abrupt halt before him, dropping his sword to the ground as he skidded slightly in the wet earth that had turned to mud under the churning of feet. ‘Nasir?’ he said hoarsely. His voice caught in his throat, which suddenly seemed far too small for any words to pass. Carefully, he reached forwards and palmed Nasir’s cheek, stroking the soft skin there with its slight stubble, caressing, and then, when that caught no movement, he cradled the familiar, stubborn chin in his fingers and raised Nasir’s face upwards, begging, pleading, praying to the gods for a response, for movement, for the lightest breath of the living.

Innumerable moments passed before Nasir’s eyes finally cracked open, dark and pained. A wounded gaze settled on his own, drifting in and out of focus, and cracked lips parted, a hiss of sound escaping them.

As the familiar sound of his own name fell upon his ears, Agron thanked every god in the heavens. Words failing him, he leant forward and pressed his forehead against Nasir’s own, the deep pit that had settled in his gut the moment he had heard of Nasir’s plight finally retreating before fading altogether. Slowly, he took a long, deep breath, drawing sweet, damp air into his lungs. Nasir was safe and in his arms once more.

Footsteps sounded and Agron knew without looking that it was Spartacus who approached. He moved back infinitesimally, allowing his presence, and a strong hand reached out to grasp Nasir’s bloodied shoulder, careful to avoid the torn flesh of his back.

‘You did well, Nasir,’ he heard Spartacus say over the ringing in his ears that had yet to fade fully.

Agron felt Nasir nod against him and he echoed it, murmuring his own praises and managing to bring a faint, ghosting smile to bloodied lips. Mirroring it, he drew back and, taking the knife that Spartacus proffered, reached upwards and cut the ropes that bound Nasir’s arms above his head before lowering him to the ground and settling him carefully on his side. Gingerly, he leant over him, brushing back sweat-damp strands of dark hair that smelled strangely sweet and cloying, and that clung to his fingers as he pushed them away from Nasir’s forehead so he could better lay gaze on the pale face.

Nasir had closed his eyes, seemingly exhausted, but Agron could feel faint pressure as he leant his head into Agron’s hands. Heat pricked at the back of Agron’s eyes and he fought to keep his face quiet and still, instead focusing on the welcome distraction of Naevia, who had approached blood-spattered and silent. She knelt down beside them to examine Nasir’s back before turning her attention to the wounds that Agron could now see upon his leg, arm and chest. At her urging, he quickly ripped strips from their clothing to bind against them to prevent further loss of blood, then together they studied the chains that bound Nasir’s wrists, realising quickly that it would be no simple task to remove them.

‘Key to bonds must wait back at villa,’ Naevia said, her voice low and anxious. She pressed the back of her hand against Nasir’s forehead. ‘He remains cool to touch. Fever has not yet taken him, though I fear for infection.’

Agron nodded absently, still running his hand softly over Nasir’s hair, frowning as he found a patch of matted blood near Nasir’s left temple. He could hear Crixus talking somewhere behind them and let the growled words drift over him, his body feeling suddenly heavier than it had moments before, as though all the exertion of the past few days had descended upon him all at once.

‘Haste must be seized with both hands,’ Crixus was saying to Spartacus, his voice hushed. ‘Soldiers will come when discovery is made of villa’s fate. We must return there to ensure safety of all who remain.’

Though Agron heard him give no assent, Spartacus seemed to agree, for he approached the small trio on the ground. ‘Agron,’ he said, his voice patient but firm. ‘We must move.’

Agron nodded, not looking up.

‘Can you bear weight? Or shall I give aid?’

‘I would walk.’

The hoarse voice took all gathered by surprise. As one, Agron and Spartacus turned to Nasir, whose eyes were open, if not completely alert, as he struggled to sit up, paying little heed to Naevia’s restraining hand upon his shoulder. ‘I would walk,’ he said again.

About to protest, Agron caught the look on Spartacus’ face. Pride was there, and no small amount of respect. Agron looked back at Nasir, and saw the determination etched on his pale face. Slowly, he nodded. ‘So you shall.’ Gesturing at Naevia to shift back upon her heels, he reached one hand gently underneath Nasir’s armpit as Spartacus did the same on his other side. Together they levered Nasir to his feet, where he stood, swaying slightly, but upright.

As Spartacus left to inform the others of their plans, Agron pressed calloused fingers against Nasir’s chin, tilting his face up so that he could see into Nasir’s dark eyes, which had finally started to regain some focus. ‘Are you certain of this?’ he asked. When Nasir nodded, he carefully slung an arm low around Nasir’s waist, supporting him as best he could without doing further injury to his back. About to move off, he stopped as Nasir resisted.

‘Hold a moment.’

Slowly, Nasir reached up about his own neck. Bloody fingers fumbled, then fastened around the collar that still rested dark against the pale skin of his throat. With one harsh tug, he pulled it free and cast it upon the ground where it lay in the mud, gleaming slightly in the light of the newly risen sun. Together, the two of them stared down at it.

Nasir’s voice was soft but determined when he finally spoke. ‘Never again shall my neck be bound by that collar.’

Agron nodded, making his own vow. ‘Never again,’ he said, his throat clenching as he wrapped his arm tighter about Nasir’s waist and helped him make his slow, halting way towards Spartacus.

\-------------------

The hiss that escaped Nasir was soft and low, almost indistinguishable from the faint crackle of the torches as they burnt steadily in their sconces on the walls of the temple corridor. Agron paused, waiting until Nasir had quieted again beneath his touch before he continued his careful ministrations, laying soft strips of cloth against the ugly cuts gouged into the otherwise smooth flesh of Nasir’s back.

Nasir shifted beneath his hands, finally resettling himself where he lay flat-stomached against the pile of rugs and animal pelts that made up their sleeping pallet, with a loose-woven blanket pulled up about his waist. ‘Apologies,’ he murmured, sounding almost half-lost to slumber already.

Agron’s lips curved in a smile, quietly amused that Nasir could find rest despite the treatment of his wounds. Still, he supposed that exhaustion must yet linger in Nasir’s every limb and muscle, if not from his capture and escape then from the injuries themselves, not to mention the further sapping of his strength from the exertion of their homecoming underneath the shadow of the great mountain, Vesuvius.

It had been a long journey back to the rebel temple, moving at slow enough pace to account for the twenty slaves who had chosen to join Spartacus and also for Nasir’s injuries. They had been fortunate to have taken possession of some horses found tethered by that cursed clearing in the woods, and still others had been revealed in the stables of the taken villa. The beasts had eased the journey, bearing coin and precious foodstuffs taken from their Roman owners, as well as those least able to walk.

The girl, Aemelia, had been one of the slaves who had chosen to accompany them back to Vesuvius to take up with the growing rebel army. She had hovered over Nasir for most of the journey, offering help in tending his wounds and plying him with food and water until Agron, growing impatient with her attentions, had sought audience with Spartacus and persuaded him to distract her so he could tend to Nasir alone. Though Spartacus had heaved a sigh, he had acquiesced, and Agron had spent the rest of the journey in relative quiet, with occasional assistance from Naevia, versed in the tending of wounds from her time in the ludus of Batiatus. The sight of Aemelia trailing behind Spartacus, plying him with questions of every sort, had brought unintended amusement to all and had so lightened the journey, though Agron held suspicion he would be spending many nights on watch on the temple walls in recompense as soon as Nasir had returned to full strength.

Turning his thoughts away from the journey home, Agron refocused on the task at hand, covering another of the lash-marks that marred Nasir’s back with a clean piece of cloth. ‘I would not have you concern yourself,’ he said. ‘You have suffered much.’

Nasir shrugged sleepily, then let out a soft ‘fuck’ as the slight movement jostled his injuries.

Agron frowned. ‘You forget yourself,’ he chided. ‘Strength returns only with rest.’

‘It yet returns too slow,’ Nasir murmured stubbornly, sounding more like obstinate child than the warrior he had proved himself making escape from the villa of Secundus Lucius, however ill-fated his attempt had proven.

Agron laid the last bandage on Nasir’s back then nudged him fully awake before helping him to rise so he sat upright on the low pallet, his arms wrapped around his bent knees. Kneeling behind him, Agron gathered a longer length of cloth in his hands and began to pass it around Nasir’s chest and back, binding the bandages in place. ‘Better slow than not at all,’ he said sternly. ‘Caution favours those honour it.’

Nasir huffed a laugh as Agron secured the final piece of cloth, tucking it back upon itself so it did not come loose. ‘And if I yet refuse to show such caution? What will you do? Keep me in golden cage until danger fades from sight?’

About to press a kiss to the back of Nasir’s neck, Agron stilled as the memory of a forgotten conversation reared its foul head. Sitting back, he reached up with one hand and slowly trailed the backs of his fingers down Nasir’s uninjured arm, watching as small bumps developed in their wake before dropping his hand down to his side and reaching for the remainder of the bandages that lay discarded on the side of the pallet. ‘You think this of me?’ he asked lightly, feeling a tension he knew revealed itself in his halting words. ‘That I impose such prison?’

Nasir twisted round to look at him. His dark brows were furrowed. ‘Words spoken were in jest,’ he said. ‘Their intent was not to cast shadow.’

Agron remained silent, choosing to focus his attention on turning the strips of cloth between his fingers, binding them into a roll ready for next use. Nasir, however, shifted so he was facing Agron, wincing briefly as the movement stretched the long, healing cut that reached along his thigh. His eyes were searching. ‘If thoughts burden you, I would have you share weight.’

Agron set the bandages aside, regretting having voiced his concerns at all. ‘It is nothing,’ he said dismissively. ‘Only words spoken by another in anger, soon forgotten.’

Yet Nasir had that look on his face, the one that meant he would not let subject of discussion be put aside. ‘Spoken by one here?’ he demanded persistently.

Agron shook his head. ‘It is nothing,’ he said again. He leant forward and began to kiss the same path his fingers had just walked, letting his mouth whisper over skin that had yet to resume its usual gleam. ‘Other matters remain to be remedied, ones that would bring far greater pleasure than simple words.’

Nasir reached out to him, running a hand over the back of his head only to catch at the short strands of hair there in order to tether him at arm’s distance. ‘I would have you speak,’ he said firmly. ‘Or you must seek remedy for such matters elsewhere, both this night and for those beyond.’

Agron sat back with a sigh. ‘Fucking Syrians,’ he muttered, knowing when to accept defeat. He toyed with the frayed edges of the blanket that pooled around Nasir’s slim waist. ‘Words spoken were that of Crixus.’

Nasir raised a dark eyebrow. ‘How long was I absent that you now seize upon words uttered by the Gaul? You know the man a fool.’

‘In most. Yet not in this.’ Agron flicked a gaze towards Nasir before glancing away again. ‘He claimed I would keep you in gilded cage,’ he said abruptly.

Nasir frowned then shook his head. ‘He is wrong,’ he said simply.

Agron shrugged, rising upwards from the pallet in one swift movement to stand before the blanketed wall of their makeshift tent, his hand clenching and unclenching as his nails bit into his palm. ‘You say it so? Heart’s desire would see you safe from all harm.’ When Nasir did not immediately reply, he turned back ready to demand answer, only to be met with Nasir’s amused smile.

‘You speak as if such thought is owned only by yourself.’

‘It is not?’

Nasir huffed a chuckle. ‘For one who calls himself elder, you often linger far from wisdom.’

Stung, Agron turned away, only to be pulled back by Nasir’s quiet words.

‘I have not told you of events that passed under the roof of Secundus Livius.’

Agron stilled. He had let Nasir keep his tale to himself despite his own punishing desire to hear it, not wanting to stir the troubled memories already reflected in Nasir’s dark eyes, memories that yet haunted sleep and caused Nasir to wake with a suddenness that often startled Agron from his own dreams of the arena. Silently, he shook his head, his gaze fixed on Nasir who lowered his gaze, a habit learnt from his days as a slave that Agron had always done his best to discourage.

‘The Roman shits sought to make me body slave once more.’

Agron nodded. He had known that from the words uttered by the dominus of the villa as he had stood over him, sword bared and bloody. ‘You escaped…’ he began.

Nasir hesitated and Agron felt his heart seize within his chest. Had he mistaken the words of that shit who had called himself dominus? Or had the fuck lied through his teeth about Nasir and his fate in attempt to have his life spared? Yet then he saw Nasir shake his head, clearly realising what thoughts his words had provoked.

‘I made escape into the night,’ Nasir said, ‘yet not before seeking other method of flight.’ His eyes flicked up to Agron’s before darting away again. ‘Dark thoughts haunted mind, threatening madness. Escape hung in swift reach and I bore weapon in hand to achieve such end.’

Confusion gave way to comprehension and Agron felt his body turning numb as he realised what he had almost lost. Slowly, he took seat at the other end of the pallet. ‘You had mind to take life.’

Nasir nodded, his fingers twisting in the blankets. ‘Thought of unwanted touch made path to such action clear. I desired escape from such fate and sought it at end of blade.’

Agron cleared his throat, unsure whether to voice the thought that jumped immediately to mind. ‘You bore such familiar touch for many years,’ he said carefully.

‘As Tiberius. I am him no longer, in more than name.’ Nasir huffed something that was almost a laugh. ‘Perhaps I grow too proud, that I put honour above prolonging life. Naevia-’

‘Do not think to compare situation,’ Agron retorted fiercely. ‘Choice is one’s own. No one may know what they would do to survive such a thing, if given opportunity to do so.’

‘I was fortunate opportunity struck,’ Nasir admitted. He raised his head suddenly, the light of the lamps lending his gaze a fire that was echoed in his next words. ‘Though choice to fight was mine, thought of you provided much needed spur.’

About to speak, Agron found himself silenced as Nasir leaned forward and laid both hands upon his face, forcing Agron to match his gaze. Nasir’s eyes were serious but resolute, as though he was determined to make Agron see his point. ‘Were it not for lessons you gave in battle breath would now be absent body. Of that I am certain.’

‘Spartacus-’ Agron began, yet Nasir shook his head.

‘Spartacus placed sword in hand, yet it was you, as much as him, who taught me to fight, to know my enemies, to seize upon their weakness. Such an act…it was not that of one who harbours intent to keep me safe behind walls no enemy can scale. Crixus spoke with false tongue. There is no cage but that from which I have been freed.’

Agron nodded, finally accepting the truth of Nasir’s words, and Nasir offered him a soft smile before leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips. His heart easing, Agron returned it before breaking off and catching at Nasir’s chin with his fingers.

‘Desire to see you safe is strong. I cannot promise that instinct will lose to intent.’

‘You protect me. As I would you. There is no guilt in that.’ Nasir’s eyes lit up with sudden mischief. ‘Which brings to mind another thought, one of far greater concern. Lugo stands burdened with much guilt for time spent again as Roman slave. I have only to lift finger and he appears at side, offering aid.’

Agron snorted. Letting go of Nasir and gathering the leftover bandages in his hands, he stood and crossed the tent to the small bundle of herbs and ointments that Mira had left them that morning when she had barged her way unannounced into their quarters, intent on seeing that the treatment of Nasir’s wounds met her own high standards and quite uncaring of the privacy they had hoped to claim by drawing the cloth walls of their small enclave closed. ‘As the man fucking should,’ he said, dropping the bits of cloth into the woven basket.

‘You hold him to fault?’

‘Had he not been fool enough to have leg skewered by fucking boar, you would never have been in Roman sight.’

Nasir shook his head, clearly fighting back a smile as he eased himself back down onto his stomach on the pallet, folding his arms beneath him and laying his head on them. ‘And what would you have him do to earn forgiveness?’

‘That I do not know. Nor does Spartacus.’

‘Spartacus holds him to account?’

‘Lugo believes he does. I see no reason to correct him.’

Nasir grinned. ‘Crixus stands not alone in bearing false tongue, I see.’

Agron’s mouth tightened as Nasir’s words stirred dark thoughts. ‘At least Lugo admits guilt. Unlike that fucking Gaul. He stands as much to fault yet does not utter word to same affect.’

‘He made apology, though he was absent need.’

‘Crixus made apology?’ Agron demanded. ‘Do we speak of the same man? He offers apology to no one!’

Nasir yawned widely before managing answer. ‘On journey home. You were lost in talk with Spartacus.’

Agron rolled his eyes. ‘I swear by the fucking gods, soon you will have every rebel in this camp begging at heel.’

Nasir just shrugged drowsily, his eyes closing. Agron shook his head. He made his way over to Nasir and rested a gentle hand on his head, smoothing the dark hair beneath his fingers. ‘Come,’ he urged. ‘I would have you rest. It will give much aid in healing wounds.’ When Nasir nodded sleepily beneath his touch, Agron reached down and pulled the loose-spun blankets over him before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. ‘Til morning then.’

There was no answer and the corner of Agron’s mouth curled upwards as he looked down at Nasir, taking in the youthful features that were swiftly becoming ever more familiar: the soft lips, so ready to part in a smile upon sight of Agron, the stubborn chin, the dark flicks of hair that often did their best to cloak affectionate gaze.

Carefully, he ran a soft finger down Nasir’s cheek, stroking gently over grazed skin which still bore all too clearly the cuts and bruises from harsh treatment and recent days. His eyes caught on one particularly vicious cut, gouged deep into the skin by Nasir’s ear, that looked as though it had come from the tail-end of a whip. He frowned and let his eyes fall from it only to move to a gash on Nasir’s arm, now cleaned and stitched, that was nevertheless an ugly reminder of where sword’s edge had cut. Unwilling yet somehow unable to stop himself, he allowed his gaze to rove over Nasir’s body, cataloguing the heavy count of his injuries, both minor and severe, until finally his eyes fell on Nasir’s back, where many strips of white cloth hid bloodied wounds cruelly dealt not just to punish, but for fucking pleasure. And those were only the wounds to Nasir’s body. Another sort had cut far more deeply.

Removing his hand from Nasir’ cheek, Agron brought it stiffly back down to his side, where it tightened into a fist almost without intent. He glanced at Nasir one last time then turned and strode from the alcove, throwing aside the blankets that gave them privacy to emerge into the temple corridor, where he could see the flickering play of a campfire’s flames against shadowed stone and hear the cheerful shouts and cheers, no longer muffled by heavy cloth walls, of the rebels celebrating Nasir’s homecoming, as well as welcoming the new recruits.

His mouth curled disdainfully. How could they celebrate when Nasir lay so wounded, his dreams still shadowed by days he had thought forgotten? When hundreds, nay, thousands of slaves even now suffered similar threat of injury or even death at the hands of their self-proclaimed masters? When those same masters could even now be advancing on the temple, silent shadows in the night, ready to deliver death to all within the temple walls, even as they lay asleep and injured in their fucking beds?

Turning on his heel, he strode off, away from the festivities. Yet he had gone only a few steps when he found himself checked by the strong hand of Spartacus against his shoulder.

‘Apologies,’ he grated, shrugging off Spartacus’s hand and turning to take his leave of the man. He was no longer in the mood for conversation that night. He strode off, only to become aware that Spartacus was following at his heels as he made his way towards the central courtyard, echoing the path he had taken some day back, when Lugo and Crixus had returned to camp absent their companion.

Ignoring Spartacus, as well as the men and women who slapped him on the back and arms as he passed, Agron headed for the same bit of wall he had scaled the morning he had first heard of Nasir’s plight and soon had hand and foot against the stone, ready to propel himself upwards and away from the fools who sounded such rousing cheers. Feeling a presence at his back, he paused, turning to cast Spartacus a glare that would have made lesser men quail.

Spartacus, however, returned it evenly and even when Agron began to climb, making for the same vantage point where he had looked out on the dawning world that fateful morning, the man echoed his movements, scaling stone and rock with graceful ease before taking seat beside him as he stood upon the stone ledge, his eyes narrowed and watchful for the danger he knew lurked beyond.

They remained as such for some time, watching the mysterious shadows of a world lost to the night until the shouts and laughter below them had quieted to a low rumble of conversation as the rebels gradually took to the beds, some with and others absent company. Finally, when the flickering flames of the campfire had all but died, Spartacus spoke. ‘Nasir?’

Agron stared out at the long-distant horizon, lost as it was to darkness. ‘He is well. Or, as well as the gods could allow after such trials.’

‘He has suffered worse injury. He will heal in time and take his place once more amongst the brotherhood.’

Agron snorted, his mouth twisting bitterly.

Spartacus raised an eyebrow. ‘You fear for him,’ he said levelly.

Tempted to hold his tongue and refuse words, Agron realised that he could not. He owed Spartacus answer, for his loyalty over the past days, for his determination to see Nasir free. With a heavy sigh, he dropped to sit upon the temple wall, his legs hanging over the rough stone edge. ‘It is like Duro lives once more,’ he muttered. He cast a frustrated glance back towards the temple, where Nasir slept sound and safe, for the time being at least, in their bed. ‘Yet at least my brother stood somewhat higher from the ground.’

Spartacus chuckled. ‘Do not think you are the only one to own this feeling. Such is the curse of sharing one’s heart- we live forever in fear that they will come to hurt. Yet I would not have you despair. Nasir’s efforts these past days have proved he has learnt lessons taught. He stands strong and fights well. As such, he stands superior chance in forthcoming battles.’

Agron threw Spartacus a sardonic look. ‘You say Nasir now stands as fucking warrior, yet you fail to promise he will survive days to come.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought it the duty of one held as leader to give hope to those fallen low in spirit.’

‘I would not give you false hope,’ Spartacus answered. ‘Yet do not cast it whole from mind, for it is a precious thing. Chance remains that we will all see life beyond current situation.’

Agron bit his lip as he thought on Spartacus’ words, the pressure causing blood to well warm and damp in his mouth. ‘Do you ever think of it?’ he said finally.

‘Of what?’

‘After. Of what our lives will be?’

Spartacus shook his head, a silhouette against the night sky. ‘I cannot. For I have lost what came before. Thought of starting new life…it is a thing shrouded in mist.’

‘Hidden by ghosts of the past?’

‘Perhaps.’ Spartacus was still a moment, then he raised his hand and clapped it on Agron’s shoulder, breaking the tension. ‘Let us turn our thoughts to happier things. Tonight should be cause for celebration, not fear and doubt. What of you and Nasir?’

Agron raised a mocking eyebrow, but not before an image flashed before his eyes, of he and Nasir crossing the green slopes he remembered from his childhood, of the lands he had once known as well as the back of his own hand as he roved over them with his brother at his side, climbing every mountain they came across just because they could, of swimming in deep pools of the darkest blue, of lying amongst windswept grass that smelt of summer sun, and sheltering in a large hut as a winter storm howled outside, unable to break past the circle of warmth cast by a dancing fire and the company of his parents, brother and youngest sister, now all lost to time.

He cast the memories from his mind, knowing that such days were long gone. ‘I know not. What would you have us do?’

‘You and Nasir?’ Spartacus smiled, his teeth gleaming pale and white in the night. ‘Choice would be yours. You could settle upon farm…grow seed or raise cattle, goats, whatever you wished.’

Agron snorted. ‘Goats? They are creatures cursed by the gods, good for nothing but the meat they bear.’

‘Nasir holds a fondness for them.’

‘You jest.’

‘I speak truth. He confessed so once to Mira, upon seeing some of our people return successful from a hunt with three of the animals slung across shoulders.’

‘Mira mocks us both.’

Spartacus tilted his head in acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of the temple. ‘It turns late. I will remain on watch, yet you should seek your bed. Nasir will wonder what has befallen you if he wakes with you absent his side.’

Acknowledging Spartacus’ words, Agron gathered his legs beneath him and made to rise. ‘I would not suffer his displeasure, nor be the cause of it.’ Before he was able to gain his feet, however, Spartacus reached out a hand to him, fingers wrapping about his wrist.

‘If we do fall, it shall be as free men. That I swear.’

Agron nodded slowly as he climbed to his feet. ‘Or perhaps,’ he said, thinking of he and Nasir roaming across the lands east of the Rhine, ‘we shall not die at all.’

He saw Spartacus return his nod before he pushed himself off the edge of the wall, dropping nimbly to the bare earth of the temple courtyard. Knowing that Spartacus would keep keen watch for any danger that threatened, he found his heart beating calmer than it had for many days and he turned with purposeful strides towards the alcove where Nasir waited for him, lost to slumber for the moment but able, upon waking, to protect himself as he fought for a cause they both shared, to preserve their own freedom and that of those held close to heart, as well as to gain it for many others currently bound in slavery.

Pushing aside the blankets, he glanced down at Nasir. Finding him still asleep, he began to remove his armour and set it aside, all the while lost in thought. Though Spartacus’ words had not laid his fears to rest, they had at least reminded him that hope remained for Nasir to live out this battle, even if others did not. He, Agron, had taught Nasir well, and would continue to do so until Nasir could stand down any who faced him on the battlefield, especially if Agron stood with him.

And, as he climbed carefully onto the sleeping pallet and tucked himself around Nasir, who stirred sleepily but did not wake, Agron knew that for that night, at least, he would not dream of Nasir on the burning sands of the arena with sword in hand and a collar about his neck. Rather, he would dream of him striding through the cool grass of the lands east of the Rhine, strong, unhindered and free.

END


End file.
